Zoe didn't do confrontations.
She did brushstrokes.She did soft playlists and open windows.She did letting people think they'd won… while she painted the ending.
But today?
Today she was making a delivery.
—
Eliot opened his door at 10:12 AM with bedhead and the weary look of someone who'd just survived a Scarlett monologue about bathroom feng shui.
Standing there was a man in a black apron, holding an obscenely large bouquet of wildflowers, lavender, and eucalyptus — arranged with a kind of ethereal grace that made it feel... suspicious.
"Delivery for Eliot Langston," the man said, handing over the massive bouquet and a sealed envelope with Zoe's neat, minimalist handwriting on the front.
Eliot blinked. "I didn't order flowers."
The man smirked. "No one ever thinks they deserve them."
And then he was gone.
Scarlett appeared in the hallway like she had materialized from a perfume ad. "What's this?"
Eliot opened the envelope slowly. Inside, a note written in soft violet ink:
"Some people declare war with words.I use arrangements."—Z
Scarlett's eyebrows shot up. "Is she… threatening us with botany?"
"She's not threatening anyone," Eliot said, flushing. "She just… she's being Zoe."
Scarlett plucked a sprig of rosemary from the bouquet and sniffed it. "Rosemary means remembrance. Sage is cleansing. Lavender's peace. Baby's breath… is ironic."
Eliot stared. "How do you know that?"
"I dated a florist once. Very into symbolism. Very into crying."
Scarlett walked away, but not before adding, "Tell Zoe if she wants to play subtle warfare, she'll need a bigger vase."
—
Meanwhile...
Zoe sat in her sunlit studio, sipping tea, phone buzzing every few seconds with the fallout.
Scarlett had reposted a story of the bouquet.
Caption:
"Nothing says 'I'm fine' like a curated assault in a mason jar. 💐"
Zoe smirked.
Then Dahlia DM'd her.
Dahlia: Your move was savage. I approve. Want to get drinks?
Zoe: Only if we don't talk about Eliot the whole time.
Dahlia: No promises.
The war had never really ended.
They'd just learned to dress it prettier.
—
Later that night...
Eliot found himself on the balcony, bouquet still in hand, watching Scarlett reorganize his fridge by emotional temperature (again).
He looked at the flowers. Then at the stars.
"Why do I feel like I'm in a beautifully scented hostage situation?"
No one answered.
But somewhere, Zoe was smiling