For a moment, I saw Ethan near the arrivals doors and Celeste walking toward him with that bright, unguarded smile.
Then the image passed.
“Tulips are not responsible for what people do while holding them,” I said.
“Use them near the entrance.”
On the night of the new event, I stood beneath the chandeliers while guests entered through banks of white flowers.
No one whispered about Ethan.
No one watched to see whether I would fall apart.
My staff moved through the room with the calm precision we had built together.
The lights warmed.
The musicians began.
The doors opened on schedule.
I had once believed dignity meant never being publicly wounded.
Now I understood it could also mean refusing to help the person who wounded you hide the evidence.
Before the program began, I took one white tulip from the entrance arrangement and placed it on my production desk.
Then I opened the evening’s schedule and went back to work.
