Since my contract deal with the system, two months have passed. Still no task or Pokolo in sight. She literally vanished again. And the notification bar I saw that day? Gone too.
As for my life update: I became too busy. Learning every day, looking after my three major companies—it drained all my energy. I rarely have time to think about life now. Things have been moving at a super fast pace. Even my inner monologue stopped itself from over workload.
And strangely… I've started to embrace the life of Lucien Malric Moreaux. His world, his name, his routine—they're becoming mine. But even amidst all the chaos, there's one thing I haven't let slip through the cracks: Dr. Arno Theryn Solace.
I asked Shan to dig up everything about her.
Name: Dr. Arno Theryn Solace (A medical prodigy)
Age: 26, Occupation: Neurosurgeon
Side Note: Adopted by the Solace family at age ten, from a remote orphanage on the outskirts. As to where she came from, there is no biodata regarding her origin.
The night she slept with me, she had been drugged and chased by some thugs. While running, she somehow ended up in my room (to be honest, I can't complain). She was drugged by her best friend. And after spending the night with me, she went to confront her best friend—only to find out her crush and boyfriend of eight years had hooked up with that same friend. She left heartbroken, betrayed by the two people closest to her.
Since then, I've been sending her roses, every single day, as an anonymous. I don't want to overwhelm her, nor do I want to take advantage of her... I just want… to be kind. Quietly. From a safe distance...
A knock on the glass door snapped me out of my thoughts.
"May I come in, Mr. Moreaux?"
"Come in."
"Mr. Moreaux, it's almost lunch time. Will you have lunch here, or—like usual—go pick flowers with a lovestruck note?" Shan smirked.
"Ready the car. Same place as usual."
---
Shan drove me to the Victorious Rose Garden—a place where people come to pick their own flowers. Their roses are fresh, vibrant, unmatched in quality. It's become a strange little ritual of mine.
"Ah, the gentleman's back," the gardener said, smiling. What color rose would you like today?
I returned the smile. "Blue. I'll pick a blue rose today."
"Mr. Moreaux, why blue? Shouldn't you pick red? Why do you pick a different color each day," Shan remarked from behind me.
I shrugged. "Why should love only speak in red? It comes in every shade. And who said I love her?"
I looked at Shan, waiting for his reply, with one of my eyebrow raised.
"…I...I'm just offering her an invisible shoulder, you know," I added.
I didn't even say you love her! You said it yourself... Shan scratched his head. "Mr. Moreaux… your brand of offering a shoulder is definitely one-of-a-kind."
I felt embarrassed, right, Shan didn't say the word love, yet it came to my mind. Why? I mumbled to myself. Ah... Do... I really like her?
I snapped out of my inner monologue with a voice, "Here you go, sir. Your blue rose," the gardener said, gently wrapping it.
"Would you like to add a note?"
"Thank you. I'll write it myself."
---
In Dr. Arno Solace's Chamber
"Dr. Solace," the nurse said, standing just inside the doorway, "about the emergency room patient—what should we do? Does she need any additional procedures?"
Arno didn't look up from the chart in her lap. Her voice was calm, precise. "Ask the relatives if she has any known allergies or pre-existing conditions. For now, I don't need to intervene. Let the on-call surgeon handle it."
"Understood, Doctor." The senior nurse left the room slightly nodding her head, closing the glass door with a soft click.
Arno leaned back slowly in her chair, taking a deep breath. Her spine ached, her legs were stiff. She'd come off a grueling twelve-hour night shift, a surgery that had tested every ounce of her stamina. She could have gone home. She should have gone home by now. But she hadn't.
Some part of her...quiet, stubborn, and unspoken—was still waiting, for something.
Knock. Knock.
She opened her eyes. "Come in."
"Dr. Solace, a parcel for you."
"Thank you. Leave it on the table."
Her assistant nodded and left without another word.
Silence returned. Arno turned her gaze toward the small box resting on the corner of her desk. Her heartbeat softened. She reached for it, unwrapping the ribbon like a ritual.
Inside, nestled carefully, was a blue rose.
Her lips curved faintly. As always, there was a note tucked beneath the stem. She unfolded it delicately.
Note: Today the weather is so sober. Don't forget to take a cold shower and a good rest.
She stared at the message for a long moment, smiling then closed her eyes. She had been waiting for this rose.
Ever since the betrayal—and the discovery of her best friend and the person she had silently loved for eight years had both deceived her...her world had dulled. The hospital, with its sterile white walls and fluorescent lighting, had become a mirror of her inner life: monochrome, cold, and numbing. She had cut ties with those two backstabber.
But then came the first rose. A white one, lying quietly on her counter. She'd asked her assistant where it came from. But, she didn't know. It was an anonymous sender, she said.
She should have felt unsettled. Instead, she felt...grateful.
Since then, a new rose arrived each day, each in a different hue, each with a quiet message. And though she told no one, it had become a part of her rhythm—a moment of stillness in a life of chaos.
A ritual of color in a world that had gone gray.
---
"Mr. Moreaux, about the eastern suburb project…"
Shan's voice broke the silence with a tinge of hesitation.
"Ruxin Corp seems dead set on getting their hands on it."
He paused. Cleared his throat. Then, with the subtle audacity only a long-time assistant could muster, he added,
"And… isn't the Ruxin heiress your fiancée?"
He looked at me-his boss, his president, the man reborn in a new name—searching my face for a crack in composure.
I leaned back before answering.
"She was my fiancée," I said evenly. "Back when I was still Lucien Kaelin. When I was still naïve enough to think family meant forever."
I exhaled.
"That life is over. The Kaelins have nothing to do with me anymore. Their ambitions, their deals, their carefully curated puppets—they're no longer my burden."
I let my gaze settle on Shan.
"Now I'm Lucien Malric Moreaux. And I never loved the Ruxin heiress. I never even acknowledged her as mine. It was a an arrangement brokered by two dynasties too proud to ask their children what they actually wanted."
A silence fell.
"Don't bring up those matters again in front of me," I warned him quietly. "Lest someone overhears and draws the wrong conclusions."
Shan smirked faintly, concealing a secret thought. (Ah, President… You can deny it all you want, but your heart already belongs to someone else. Ms. Solace has no idea the storm she's walking into. I must find a way… somehow, two bring these clueless two together.)
Snapping back to business, Shan straightened.
"Mr. Moreaux, this afternoon, we'll stop by to pick up your suits for the overseas conference. In the evening, we'll attend the charity gala—hosted, as always, by Moreaux Tech."
I gave a slow nod. (If memory serves, Moreaux Tech has hosted this gala every year since its founding—cold, polished, relentless. Just like its founder. Just like me.)
"Alright."
---
Arno pressed her palm against the windowpane. The afternoon light caught the faint outline of the distant watchtower—barely visible from her new apartment.
It had taken her months to leave the old one.
Too many memories clung to its walls like dust—memories of late-night conversations, of laughter that once echoed between two souls.
She had promised herself: if she was going to move on, she'd move on completely. No more shadowboxing with ghosts.
She inhaled deeply.
"Let's go shopping," she whispered, then grinned suddenly, louder: Let's go shopping!
A little excitement bloomed in her chest. It had been so long since she felt light.
She turned toward the bed, where a canvas leaned against the wall—framed in muted raisin hues, delicate and heartfelt.
Inside it, dried roses, carefully arranged. Every flower she'd received during those dark two months was pressed into it—a quiet testament to resilience, to survival. She had crafted it herself. Finished it only yesterday. And looking at it now, she felt—oddly—proud.
She didn't know who had sent those roses. There was no return address. Just warmth arriving at her desk when she needed it most.
She murmured, "Thank you, whoever you are."
With a second glass at the canvas, she placed a hand over her heart, It's beating in rhythm.
"Maybe… someday, if fate is kind enough, we'll meet."
The world is round, after all.
---