The city skyline blurred behind the glass wall of Adam Ravenstrong's office, streaked with the early gold of sunrise—but he didn't see it. His focus was on the unopened envelope on his desk. The second bouquet had already been ordered.
He knew it was reckless. Especially after last night. Tristan's voice still echoed in his mind, biting and sharp:
"Sofia doesn't want anything from you, Adam—not your flowers, not your money, not even your name."
But it didn't stop him.
Tristan had already wired the final payment to the bank. Her house was no longer at risk—every debt wiped clean as if it had never existed. But he made one thing clear to the bank manager: Sofia must never know that it was Adam who paid it off.
He didn't do it for gratitude. He didn't need thanks. He just needed her life to stop crumbling because of him.
Still, Tristan was right about one thing—the bouquet had been a disaster. Most women would've cried tears of joy knowing Adam Ravenstrong sent them something that grand. But Tristan said she hated the flowers.
And yet...
Adam found himself ordering another one.
This time, the bouquet was simpler. No velvet ribbons. No grand display meant to impress a boardroom. Just a modest arrangement of white gardenias and white tulips —her favorite.
Not that she'd ever told him.
But the moment he found out her full name, he couldn't help himself.
One phone call turned into two, and before he realized it, he had a report thicker than some merger contracts. Every detail about her life—her favorite books, the café she visited once a week with her friends, the flowers she'd lingered by at a farmer's stall last spring.
It wasn't business anymore.
It was something far more dangerous.
He wasn't collecting data.
He was trying to understand the girl he'd broken... and the woman who still haunted him.
But it wasn't the bouquet that mattered. It was the note.
This time, no branding. No signature. No arrogance.
Just five handwritten words:
"I'm still trying. Forgive me."
He slipped the note into the envelope himself, sealing it before his assistant could offer to type something out.
This wasn't about image.
It was about her.
And despite the sting of rejection, despite the bruised pride and the voice in his head screaming this was a waste of time—he couldn't stop himself.
He'd never begged for anyone before.
But with her, he'd gladly lose all his pride.
The espresso on the edge of his desk had gone cold.
The door clicked open without a knock.
"Do you ever sleep anymore?" Tristan's voice cut through the silence like a knife wrapped in velvet.
Adam didn't look up. "Do you ever knock?"
Tristan strolled in, coffee in hand, looking irritatingly awake for someone who'd probably just rolled out of bed. "When I think you'll throw something? Sure. But this morning? You're too pathetic to lift a pen, let alone throw it."
Adam exhaled slowly through his nose. "If you came here to be irritating, congratulations. Mission accomplished."
"I came here because I figured you'd be in your office before the cleaning crew." Tristan set his coffee down on the edge of the desk and leaned on it casually. "And I was right."
Adam finally looked up, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion beneath them.
"Well?" he said.
Tristan's smirk faded. "She's not changing her mind, Adam. She meant what she said."
Adam said nothing.
"She's still furious. Hurt. She doesn't want to hear your name, much less wear it."
Adam leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "Then why the hell does it still feel like I owe her more than a goddamn apology?"
Tristan tilted his head. "Maybe because, for the first time in your life, you actually do."
The silence that followed wasn't tense—it was telling.
Adam looked out the window again. "She said she'd never marry me."
Tristan nodded. "And yet you haven't even picked a replacement bride. Which tells me you're either a masochist... or this woman actually cracked through your titanium shell."
Adam scoffed lightly but didn't answer.
Tristan pushed off the desk, walking toward the door. "You're not going to fix this in one day, Adam. But if you don't try harder than you've ever tried for anything else—you're going to lose the only woman who didn't care about your last name."
He paused, then glanced back with a shrug. "And let's face it—you kind of need someone to save you from yourself."
The door shut behind him with a quiet click, leaving Adam alone again—with his regret, his pride, and the terrifying realization that for once, all his money meant nothing.
Adam stood outside the office door for a full minute before knocking. Honestly, the last person he wanted to face today was Raymond—but avoiding him wasn't going to make the situation any less of a disaster.
The door opened, and Raymond's secretary gave him a tight smile. "He said you can go in, though... I wouldn't take it personally if he throws a stapler your way."
"Noted," Adam muttered and walked in.
Raymond didn't even look up from his paperwork. "Why are you here, Adam?" he asked, tone as flat as the Manila folders stacked on his desk.
Adam shut the door behind him. "Good morning to you, too."
Raymond snorted. "It was. Right until my secretary said you were waiting outside looking like a guilty teenager about to ask for extra allowance."
Adam dragged a hand through his hair. "That obvious?"
Raymond finally looked up, arching a brow. "You're standing like your million-peso shoes suddenly don't fit. What do you want?"
Adam hesitated, then sighed. "A miracle."
Raymond leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Well, I'm fresh out. But I do have coffee and sarcasm—plenty of that to go around."
"Give me one more week, Raymond."
The words slipped out of Adam's mouth faster than he'd planned—urgent, raw, unpolished.
Raymond slowly looked up from his desk, set his pen down with exaggerated care, and studied Adam like he'd just sprouted a second head.
"One more week?" he repeated, his voice calm—too calm. "You barged into my office at nine in the morning, looking like a man who forgot how sleep works, to ask me for seven days?"
Adam straightened his posture and tugged at the cuff of his sleeve. "Yes. Just one week. I'll fix this."
Raymond leaned back, crossing his arms. "Fix what exactly? The wedding you blew up like a summer blockbuster? The woman you publicly humiliated? Or the merger you just lit on fire with your ego?"
Adam's jaw flexed. "All of it."
There was a pause.
Then Raymond let out a breath—half exasperation, half amusement. "You know, Adam, for someone raised to handle billion-peso negotiations, you're shockingly bad at handling one woman."
Adam smiled faintly, defeated but determined. "That's why I need a week."
Raymond tilted his head. "And if I say no?"
Adam didn't blink. "Then I'll take two weeks."
That earned a low chuckle from the older man. "God help her if she says yes to you."
"Do you have any idea how much I wanted to punch you after hearing those words come out of your mouth?"
Raymond's voice was low at first—quiet, dangerous.
"How did you even know she was no longer a virgin?"
His eyes locked on Adam like a hawk zeroing in on its prey, demanding an answer.
Adam opened his mouth, then closed it again. He shifted his weight, suddenly feeling like a rookie in a boardroom instead of a billion-peso CEO.
"I... I recognized her," he said finally, his voice hoarse. "From before."
Raymond narrowed his eyes.
"From where?"
Silence stretched like a blade between them.
Adam looked away, jaw clenched, hands balled in his pockets. He couldn't bring himself to say the words. Couldn't admit out loud that the very woman he was supposed to marry was the same woman he had spent one unforgettable night with. He couldn't tell Raymond that he had been the one who took what she had saved—what she had believed in.
It would make all of this worse. Too personal. Too vulnerable.
"It doesn't matter," Adam muttered. "All that matters is the deal. The merger. I'm fixing it."
Raymond's laugh was humorless.
"So that's your story now? Are you doing all this for the merger? The flowers. The secrecy. The silence. The way you've been sulking like a man kicked out of his own home?"
He stood from his chair, walked slowly around his desk, and stopped in front of Adam.
"You're lying, son. Not to me—to yourself."
Adam didn't reply.
Raymond tilted his head. "Let me guess. You think if you just pay her debts quietly, send a few more overpriced bouquets, maybe beg a little, she'll come running back? That she'll forget how you humiliated her in front of the judge, in front of me, and the entire damn courtroom?"
Still, Adam said nothing.
"Well, here's the truth you've been avoiding," Raymond said, voice hardening. "You want this merger? Fine. I'm still on board. But you don't get another bride. There's no backup plan. No substitutes. It's her—or it's nothing."
Adam's head snapped up.
Raymond's gaze didn't flinch.
"You have seven days to fix this. Seven days to prove you deserve her. And I don't mean buying your way out of your guilt. I mean earn it. Show her you're not the cold bastard you pretended to be."
Adam's mouth opened slightly as if to argue. But Raymond wasn't finished.
"You want to know the irony?" he said, voice dipping into something softer—almost regretful.
"She was never just a condition. I chose her because I thought she might be the only one who could actually challenge you. Keep you human."
He paused. "I still think I'm right."
The room was thick with tension—of pride, of shame, of things unsaid.
Finally, Adam spoke.
"If I lose her, the merger's gone?"
Raymond nodded once. "Gone. And you'll have no one to blame but yourself."
Adam swallowed hard, the weight of everything crashing down at once.
Seven days. One woman. One chance to rewrite his biggest mistake.