Page 44 of Twisted Violet (Lovesick Villains #4)

FORTY-THREE

VIOLET

The hallway smells like vanilla and lavender.

Not the fake, overly sweet kind either. The soft, herbal version I used to keep diffusing in my old room. The one Rome always claimed gave him headaches until I caught him standing in my doorway breathing it in like it was his new favorite scent.

I pause and glance at the diffuser tucked discreetly into the corner of the hallway. New. Sleek. Blinking a faint blue light.

That wasn’t here last week.

Ever since the new management took over, things have… shifted.

Repairs actually happen now.

The heater doesn’t scream when it kicks on.

The hallway light became this golden glow that didn’t fry my retinas at midnight.

My packages stopped getting stolen .

They even replaced my flimsy front door with a new soundproof one reinforced with steel.

And then there’s the donuts.

Every morning, like clockwork, there’s a box of donuts waiting in the lobby.

Always the good kind. Always fresh.

It’s dumb, but it weirdly improves my day when I open the box and see my favorite kind, pink sprinkle, waiting for me.

I might be emotionally attached to the routine.

I remember the first time I reached for one; the front desk guy nearly tackled a guy for trying to cut in front of me to swipe it first.

“That one’s hers,” he’d said, stone-faced.

Like I was royalty, and that donut was a crown jewel.

I didn’t ask questions.

Mostly because I wanted the damn donut and that guy was a jerk for trying to cut.

But lately, things feel… off.

Not bad.

Just personal in a way I can’t explain.

Like someone’s been paying attention.

A little too well.

I’m halfway through flipping open the lid to the donut box when a slip of paper flutters out.

It lands face-up on the edge of the lobby counter. Smooth, white, heat-pressed ink still curling at the corners.

A receipt.

I blink down at it and I swear I see the name Roman scribbled on the top of it, but before I’m able to get a real look at it, the front desk guy lunges forward and snatches it up.

“I’ll take that.” He says too quickly. “We need the receipts for accounting.”

Right.

Because a building that just shelled out for steel-reinforced doors totally needs to account for every box of donuts.

I narrow my eyes at his too-tight smile, but I don’t say anything else.

I just grab my donut and leave.

But that nagging feeling sticks with me, like frosting on my fingers.

Sweet. Sticky. Hard to ignore.

An envelope shows up at my door a week later.

No knock.

No delivery notice.

Just… sitting on the welcome mat like it appeared there overnight.

Manila. Unmarked, except for a single Post-it stuck to the front.

For when you’re ready.

There’s no signature attached.

No name.

I stare at it for a long time before opening it .

Inside is a set of keys, a folded copy of a property deed, and a proposed floor plan.

It’s a storefront.

The storefront.

The one I passed on the way to work a month ago, half-wondering what it would feel like to fill that space with sugar and light.

It was just a thought.

A quiet, wishful thing.

But this… this is real.

The paper in my hand says it’s mine.

Stevie doesn’t say anything when I call her and tell her to meet me at my place.

She just shows up with two iced lattes in hand.

We don’t talk much on the drive.

She doesn’t ask questions, just rides shotgun while I hold the deed like it might disappear if I blink too hard.

The shop is bigger inside than it looks on the outside.

But it’s also warmer.

The kind of place people stop in on their worst days and their best ones, too.

Inside, it’s perfect.

Not finished, not yet. But framed out and painted. There’s even a swatch board on the counter with five paint chips in soft pinks and warm neutrals. The walls are a gentle cream. The trim, a muted green that reminds me of the guesthouse I stayed in at her place .

There’s a shelf already installed behind the counter, and it’s the exact size I once said I’d need for a display case in my imaginary cafe. I can’t even remember who I said that to-

Except I can.

Rome.

He remembered.

I turn slowly, heart thudding. “Stevie… did Rome do this?”

She’s already watching me. Arms crossed. Brow raised.

“I had nothing to do with it,” she says innocently.

I narrow my eyes.

She sighs. “Okay. Maybe he asked me for a little decorating advice. Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

She shrugs. “He sent me swatches. Wanted to get it right. Said it should feel like you.”

I stare at the space around me.

The muted pink swatches.

The soft lighting.

The quiet potential.

It does.

It feels like me, or at least, the ‘me’ I’m finally becoming.

My fingers grip around the edge of the countertop, steadying myself. “I haven’t spoken to him in months. Why would he do this?”

Stevie doesn’t answer right away.

She crosses the room to stand beside me and wraps her arm over my shoulders.

“Because love doesn’t stop just because it hurts.”

I blink hard. Swallow harder.

“You’ve already forgiven Dallas and Niko. Why haven’t you forgiven him?”

I don’t know. Maybe because his betrayal stung the most .

I shake my head. “He can’t just buy me a building and think that’ll win me back.”

Stevie smirks. “If you think that’s the only thing he’s done for you, you haven’t been paying attention.”

I knew it. The changes in my building. The uncleared rent checks. The donuts. It’s all been Rome working in the background.

“He didn’t do this to win you back, Al. He did it because he wants to take care of you, even if he has to do it from a distance.”

He’s still here, in all the ways I thought he wasn’t.

I look down at the keys in my hand.

Feel the weight of them settle in my palm.

They’re not heavy, they’re solid and real.

Maybe this life I’ve been dreaming of isn’t just a dream anymore.

Maybe it’s a beginning.

And maybe… he’s still a part of it.

Maybe they all are.