The billionaire's secret vow

The sound of traffic filtered through the frosted windows of Aria Monroe's tiny floral shop in Brooklyn, mingling with the faint scent of fresh lavender and crushed eucalyptus. Outside, New York City moved with its usual frenetic rhythm—people rushing, horns blaring, a steady pulse that never faltered. But inside Fleur & Ivy, time had a way of softening. Everything was quiet, fragrant, alive.

Aria tucked a sprig of baby’s breath into a bridal bouquet, phone wedged between her shoulder and ear.

“Zara, no, I swear if you wear that dress, you’ll outshine the bride. Again.”

Laughter burst through the line, warm and crackling.

“Isn’t that the point? Kidding. Mostly. Aria, you’re the only person I know who makes a Monday morning sound like a scented candle.”

Aria smiled faintly, smoothing a petal with her thumb. “It’s chaos under the surface. Mrs. Leary’s anniversary bouquet order got delivered to a funeral parlor. I’m one call away from a Yelp meltdown.”

“You live for the drama,” Zara teased. “Anyway, I wanted to remind you about my show next Friday. You're coming, right? No bouquets. Just you, wine, and one very underdressed runway.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Before Zara could respond, the front bell chimed.

“Hey, I’ll call you back, okay?” Aria said quickly. “Love you.”

She tucked the phone into her apron and turned. Nora, her ever-flustered receptionist and part-time bouquet-wrangler, stood in the doorway, eyes wide.

“It’s your doctor,” she said quietly. “He is asking to speak with you. He says something to do with your grandmother.”

Aria froze. Her breath caught like a thorn in her chest. Only one person that doctor would ever call about.

She crossed the shop floor, hands trembling slightly as she took the receiver.

“Hello doc.”

Dr. Levin’s voice was gentle, too gentle.

“Aria, your grandmother’s condition has taken a turn. She asked to see you. I dot. Think she will survive this night.”

The line blurred into static as Aria stood still, the world slipping sideways. Then she nodded, even though no one could see her.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Mount Sinai Hospital always smelled like too much bleach and too little hope. Aria hated it.

She walked briskly down the corridor, her boots echoing against the sterile floors, her heart racing. When she pushed open the door to Room 608, the air shifted. Thinner. More fragile.

Her grandmother lay propped against snow-white pillows, a tangle of IV lines at her wrist and a thin oxygen tube at her nose. But her eyes which were always wise, fierce, defiant—were now barely keeping itself open.

“There you are,” she whispered, voice scratchy but warm. “My beautiful girl.”

Aria rushed to her bedside, pressing a kiss to her papery cheek. “Don’t scare me like this again, okay?”

Her grandmother smiled weakly. “I never do anything halfway. You should know that by now.”

Aria sat. She took her grandmother’s cool hand into hers and tried not to notice how thin it had