Part 2: The roses hit the floor

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She snatches the white roses from his trembling hands, her red gown shimmering under the city lights like fresh blood.

For a split second, hope flickers in his eyes. He looks up from the wheelchair, his dirty clothes stained from the streets he had crossed just to reach her.

Then her fingers tighten. The delicate petals crush between them.

"You really thought these would fix it?" she whispers, her voice cold as the night wind whipping across the penthouse balcony.

He tries to speak, but the words catch in his throat. The man who once carried her through every storm now sits broken before her, wheels locked against the marble tiles.

With a swift motion, she hurls the bouquet over the railing. The white roses scatter into the darkness below, falling twenty floors toward the indifferent streets.

His face crumples. Tears mix with the grime on his cheeks.

"I gave up everything for you," he finally manages, voice hoarse. "The accident... the hospital... I fought to get here tonight."

She turns away, heels clicking sharply as she walks toward the glass doors of the luxurious suite. The party inside glows with laughter and champagne, a world he no longer belongs to.

But she pauses at the threshold. Her shoulders tense.

Slowly, she glances back. The stunning woman in red looks at the man in the wheelchair — really looks — and something shifts in her expression. Regret? Guilt? Or something darker?

"You shouldn't have come," she says softly. "He’s inside waiting for me."

The wind carries her words like a final blow. The man grips the arms of his chair until his knuckles turn white.

She steps through the doors, leaving him alone on the balcony. The city sprawls endlessly below, lights twinkling like stars he can no longer reach.

Yet as the glass slides shut, she doesn’t fully close it. A small gap remains. An invitation? A test?

Or the beginning of something even more painful than betrayal?