The office is drowning in roses.
They cluster on every surface—the polished mahogany desk, the low glass table beside the leather couch. A dozen bouquets, perhaps more, each one a quiet declaration from a business partner, a hopeful employee, someone wanting to be remembered by the heir of Roselle Holdings. The cards are still tucked into their stems—white and cream and gold—bearing names I didn't even bother to read.
I stand near the glass wall, one hand resting in my pocket, the other pressed flat against the cool surface. Below me, the city stretches out in shades of pale orange and deepening amber, the sun sinking slowly into the horizon like a coin dropped into still water. The sky is awash with color—soft pinks, bruised purples, the last gold of a dying day fading into the encroaching blue of evening.
I barely see it.
