I was left at the altar tearing my bouquet apart for six remaining guests, completely unaware a mysterious stranger in a suit had watched my groom flee upstairs.

Graham flinched, his eyes darting toward Thomas. His hand shook, the barrel of his pistol wavering between me and the investigator.

"Vance," Graham spat, sweat dripping down his temple. "You don't have the guts to pull that trigger. You're an auditor. A glorified bean-counter."

"Try me," Thomas said, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of hesitation. "Marcus Kane gave me explicit authorization to retrieve his collateral by any means necessary. You firing at an unarmed woman in her own shop gives me clear grounds for self-defense. Put the gun down, Graham."

"Shut up! Shut up!" Graham screamed, his voice bouncing off the high glass ceilings. "Marcus Kane can go to hell! This whole city can go to hell! I earned this money! I spent eight months listening to this boring little girl talk about soil acidity and winter bulbs! Do you know how excruciating that was? Sleeping in her tiny, drafty apartment while my family went under?"

Every word was like a slap, but instead of breaking me, it hardened my resolve. I had spent eight months cooking for this man, nursing him when he had the flu, believing his compliments, trusting his promises.

And all the while, he was resenting every second of it.

"You didn't have to pretend, Graham," I said, taking a deliberate step toward him.

"Stay back, June!" he yelled, his finger tightening on the trigger. "I swear to god, I'll shoot!"

"No, you won't," I said. "Because you're a coward. You couldn't even break up with me to my face. You ran up a fire escape in a rented tuxedo because you couldn't stand the thought of facing sixty people and admitting you were broke."

"I am not broke!" he roared.

That split second of uncontrolled rage was all Thomas needed.

Thomas lunged forward, closing the distance in a blur of motion. He slapped Graham’s gun hand upward just as a deafening *CRACK* shattered the room. A bullet tore into the ceiling, raining plaster and dried lavender down on us.

Graham shrieked as Thomas twisted his wrist, forcing the pistol from his grip. It clattered loudly across the floor, spinning into the corner by the trash bin.

Graham threw a wild, desperate punch, catching Thomas across the cheekbone. Thomas grunted, absorbing the blow, then drove a vicious knee into Graham’s stomach.

Graham folded like wet paper, gasping for air as he dropped to his knees.

Before he could crawl away, I grabbed a heavy stoneware vase filled with four dozen long-stemmed white roses—the very arrangement Graham had ordered as our head-table centerpiece—and brought it down across the side of his head with everything I had.

The vase shattered in an explosion of wet ceramic, water, and thorns.