The Flower That Grew from Ashes novel Chapter 201

"And that blueprint is something you couldn't buy, no matter how much money you offered."

At that moment, sitting in the coffee shop, Hackett Lehman tasted a bitter sensation for the first time in his thirty-plus years of life.

Powerlessness.

A complete, bone-deep powerlessness.

All his life, he had been used to money paving the way.

When he was chasing Annelise Sargent, he bought her the most expensive, rarest blue roses in the city.

When he married her, he cleared all the Sargent family's debts.

He thought money could buy anything.

Love, marriage, second chances, and forgiveness.

He even thought that as long as he was willing to bleed cash, buy an entire building, and offer it to her on his knees, she would see his sincerity and finally look back at him.

But now, someone was telling him otherwise.

He couldn't buy the building she wanted.

Because what secured her that building wasn't money.

It was a blueprint drawn by another man who had stayed up all night—a blueprint that carried the warmth of a beating heart.

"Mr. Lewis," Hackett finally spoke after a long silence, his voice so hoarse it was barely audible. "Who is this Judd guy?"

Mr. Lewis, the agent, glanced at him, seemingly weighing whether or not to answer.

"A moderately famous architect here in Norway," he finally admitted. "His firm is in Old Town."

"He and Ms. Sargent live in the same apartment building. He's on the second floor, she's on the third."

"They're neighbors."

"Neighbors," Hackett repeated the word.

"Not just neighbors," Mr. Lewis added. "Eriksen told me that when those two presented the blueprint, one talked about flowers and the other talked about architecture. They complemented each other flawlessly."

"He said he's lived for over seventy years and has never seen two people so perfectly in sync."

Hackett didn't say another word.

He lowered his head, staring at his long-cold coffee for a very, very long time.

The cafe door pushed open, letting in a gust of freezing wind.

He suddenly broke into a violent fit of coughing, doubling over in his seat.

He still hadn't recovered.

The high fever he'd caught from standing in that torrential rainstorm had lingered for over half a month.

Mr. Lewis looked at him with a trace of pity. "Mr. Lehman, why don't you go back and rest? As for this matter... I think you should just let it go."

In the refund notes, there had been only one cold, mechanical line:

"Order does not meet store guidelines, returned to sender."

She had already used those words to sentence him to death.

The flowers he bought were returned to sender.

The building he wanted to buy couldn't even reach her.

He, along with all his money, his remorse, and his painfully late devotion, had been completely returned to sender.

Sent right back to the other side of a river he could never cross again.

Mr. Lewis left.

Hackett sat alone in the empty cafe until night fell.

Outside the window, the flower shop with the daisy sign lit up with a warm glow.

He saw her walk out of the shop and lock the door.

Beside her was that man—taller and broader than him.

The two walked shoulder to shoulder toward her apartment.

That quiet, natural proximity nailed him to the spot more thoroughly than any words ever could.