He hesitated for a moment, then flipped straight to the last few pages. One broad stroke of his hand, and Patrick Harding sprawled across the signature line.
He stepped forward, pulled me into his arms, and pressed a kiss to my forehead, a gesture that almost passed for tenderness.
"Whatever you want, it's yours. Now be good and go home on your own."
Then he left without looking back.
I watched his retreating figure, and eight years of memories crashed over me at once.
When the Fox family first brought me back, everyone in the house hated me. My brother Carl said I'd stolen June's love. June herself found every possible way to bully me, to tear me down.
It was Patrick who stepped forward, shielded me behind him, and told June, stone-faced, to apologize.
He knew I was terrified in that unfamiliar house. Every day after school, he'd come to sit with me, bringing warm milk, saying, "Don't be scared. I'm here."
He promised he'd protect me for the rest of his life. That he'd never let anyone hurt me.
Back then, I was the only one in his eyes.
The door swung open, cutting through my thoughts.
"Ms. Fox, where would you like these pastries and flowers?"
A new assistant walked in carrying an armful of lush red roses and a box of elegant pastries, her face bright with envy.
"Mr. Harding is so good to you. He has fresh flowers delivered every single day and all these desserts specially prepared so you won't go hungry at work."
I looked at the sickeningly sweet macarons and mousse cakes. I looked at the roses I'd never liked, the same ones that always showed up on June Fox's social media. A hollow smile tugged at my lips.
I didn't have a sweet tooth. I hated red roses. Patrick knew that better than anyone.
"Just set them over there."
My voice was flat. I gathered my things and walked out.
The assistant was still chattering behind me.
"Ms. Fox, you're so lucky. Mr. Harding only has eyes for you..."
Lucky?
I walked out of Harding Group. The evening wind hit my face, and my eyes burned.
My phone buzzed. A name I hadn't seen in eight years lit up the screen.
Maurice Sanchez.
On the other end, I could hear the smile in his voice.
"Eight years before you finally called. Much later than I expected. I'll come get you tomorrow."
I shook my head, my gaze steady.
"Give me a week. There's something I need to take care of first."