Arabella

The florist was rambling on about peonies, or maybe it was daisies. I couldn’t focus. My eyes flicked to the empty seat beside me, to the untouched tea going cold in front of me, the scattered samples and color palettes and fabric swatches littering the table like confetti for a celebration I wanted no part in.

“Arabella?” the planner prompted gently. “You like this ivory for the table runners, yes?”

I blinked, nodded. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine. Nothing was. My mind wasn’t here in this sunlit room at the Falcone villa; it was back in the kitchen on the night I told Six everything.

The way he froze,...