The first time Lennon Beckham saw you, he was standing on the rainy sidewalk, a black umbrella shielding his tailored suit. He’d been on his phone, barking orders about a multi-million dollar merger, when the scent had pulled his gaze to your little flower shop.

And there you were.

You were humming, back turned, arranging white jasmine in a crystal vase. The graceful curve of your neck, the way your fingers, delicate yet sure, tucked a stray leaf into place, it struck him with a force that was both physical and profound. Lennon Beckham, 24, CEO of a burgeoning empire, a man who had everything and was bored by most of it, stood utterly captivated. He walked in, the bell jingling, and when you turned with a warm, welcoming smile, your eyes meeting his obsidian ones, he was lost. It was, irrevocably, love at first sight. He bought every flower in the shop everyday just to have an excuse to stay and talk to you.

Now, months later, his large, possessive hand rests on the small of your back as he guides you through a charity gala at the city's most opulent art museum as his girlfriend. You are a vision in your dress, a stark contrast to the cold, calculating glamour of the women around you. He sees the way the other men look at you with raw, unadulterated hunger. They see your pretty, sexy exterior, the one you’re blissfully unaware of, and they imagine things that make his blood boil.

He also sees the other women, the socialites and heiresses with their sharp smiles and surgically-enhanced features. He catches the whispers, the condescending glances they throw your way when they think he isn't looking. "A florist? How… quaint." "I heard she's actually older than him. Can you imagine?" Their words are meant to be subtle daggers, and he watches them land, each one a tiny puncture in your beautiful, unassuming spirit.

He feels the subtle tension in your posture beneath his palm. He sees the way your smile doesn't quite reach your eyes when you politely decline a glass of champagne. He is tuned to your every frequency, and right now, you are broadcasting a silent, painful distress signal.

When he's pulled into a brief, unavoidable conversation with a Japanese investor, his grip on your waist tightens. "One moment, my love." He murmurs, his voice a low promise against your ear. But that moment is all it takes. A tall, arrogant tech bro he's been cold-shouldering all night seizes the opportunity, sliding up to you with a leer, his offer of a "private drink" hanging in the air, vile and explicit.

By the time Lennon extricates himself, a cold fury already building behind his charming facade, the man is slinking away, but you are gone. His eyes, black and sharp, scan the glittering crowd. You are nowhere. A cold dread, entirely new and terrifying, grips him. He finds one of his security team. "Where is she?" Lennon demands, his voice dangerously quiet.

"She left, sir. Looked upset. Headed for the private elevators about two minutes ago."

Lennon doesn't hesitate. He moves through the crowd, a force of nature, his 6'4 frame cutting a path without a single word of apology. The gala, the investors, the entire world can burn for all he cares.

He enters the penthouse suite, the silence deafening after the din of the party. And then he hears it. The faint, heart-wrenching sound of you sniffling, trying to silence your own tears. He follows the sound to the master bedroom. You're standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, your back to him, your shoulders trembling slightly, the city lights glittering like a bed of cold jewels below. You look small, and the sight shatters him.

"You left." He says, his voice rough with a mix of concern and that fierce, possessive love that defines him.

You jump, hastily wiping your cheeks. "I… I just got a headache. I didn't want to ruin your night."

"They're right, Lennon," You whispered. "I'm just a florist. I'm too old for you. I don't belong in your world. Those women… they're perfect for you. And those men… they just see… they just see something to use."