Page 1 of Forget-Me-Nots and Apricots

Chapter One

Thescentofdewyroses and rich, damp earth mingled in the cool morning air as I gently turned the key in the lock of Petal & Thorn, my quaint flower shop tucked snugly between the aroma-filled warmth of a bakery and the quiet charm of a nearby bookstore. As the door swung open, the familiar chime of the overhead bell rang out like a welcome hymn into my personal sanctuary, and I paused, drawing in a long, steady breath as the comforting fragrances calmed my racing heart. Mornings in this serene haven were my cherished ritual—each one a quiet, predictable interlude free from the clamor of unnecessary interactions.

I reached for the switch, and with a soft click the shop burst into life under a gentle, amber glow. Every surface sparkled with a distinct radiance: shelves ornamented with delicate glass vases caught the light, scattering prisms of color around the room, and the central display table boasted arrangements of lilies, peonies, lavender and wisps of baby’s breath, each stem carefully placed in an artful, seemingly spontaneous display of nature’s beauty. This shop was my legacy, built from scratch by my grandfather’s loving hands, and now, in every petal and leaf, it was mine to cherish. I was determined to uphold his vision—keeping the space impeccably organized, vibrantly alive, and entirely untouched by domineering Alphas who presumed they knew best.

Being an Omega did not consign me to frailty or vulnerability. Too often, people assumed that my status defined my limits, as if my second gender inherently impaired my capacity to thrive. I was far from that delicate notion, never the one to be swept off my feet by the first Alpha brandishing a roguish grin with too-sharp teeth.

My upbringing had been anything but timid. Raised by formidable Alphas—my own parents—they ensured that I learned early on how to hold my own. They instilled in me not only the art of self-defense and the savvy of running a business, but also the imperishable lesson that my dignity and resolve should never yield to anyone’s dominance. This ethos had accompanied me through childhood, underscored by persistent, so-called “well-wishes” from neighbors warning that a strong Omega was doomed to a solitary existence—as if I needed their pity.

Just as I settled further into this comforting routine, the clean aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the lingering floral scents. It heralded the arrival of Jamie, my best friend and sole employee, who strolled in through the front door, carrying an effortless, relaxed air that softened my sharper edges. He flashed a bright, inviting smile as he lifted two steaming cups.

“Morning, boss. Got your usual,” he said with a playful lilt.

Accepting the cup with a nod of gratitude, I took a deliberate sip of the hot coffee, the bold flavors weaving seamlessly with the morning’s bouquet of fragrances. “You might be the only reason I tolerate mornings,” I replied with a soft chuckle.

“Flattery will not earn you a raise,” Jamie teased, shrugging off his coat as he set about his own tasks. “How’s the schedule today?”

I gestured toward the open planner resting on the counter. “We've got two deliveries slated before noon, a bridal consultation at one, and a funeral arrangement for the mortuary on Fifth.”

Jamie scrunched his face in mild disgust. “Ugh, that mortuary gives me the creeps.”

Raising an eyebrow in amusement, I retorted, “It’s a funeral home, Jamie. The eerie ambiance is part of the charm.”

He shuddered as if recalling a personal encounter. “Yeah, but that mortician—he’s odd. Always staring at me, as if he can decipher my deepest secrets.”

I couldn’t help but snort at his exaggerated concern. “You don’t have any secrets.”

“Not that you know of,” he quipped, waggling his brows mischievously before trotting off to the back, leaving me to my preparations.

With another hour until the morning rush began, I moved gracefully around the shop, methodically restocking the vases, delicately trimming the fresh stems, and arranging the cooler in a way that showcased the day’s best blooms right at the front. The rhythmic snip of the shears and the faint, nostalgic tunes emanating from the old radio intertwined to create a cocoon of tranquility, a familiar cadence that set my soul at ease. All was peaceful—until it was abruptly ruptured by a sudden, jarring sound.

The front door slammed open with a force that made the glass tremble, shattering the calm. My head snapped upward, heart pounding fiercely, as an unfamiliar Alpha stormed into the shop. He was barely out of his teens, his wild eyes brimming with a mixture of desperation and unbridled energy. His scent—a sharp, earthy tang of pine clashing with the unmistakable smell of sweat—immediately prickled my nerves.

“Hey,” I said, my voice steady yet laced with firm resolve. “The shop isn’t open yet.”

The intruder’s gaze darted about the room, finally locking onto me as his nostrils flared in a silent declaration. “You’re an Omega.”

I maintained my composure, refusing to provide him any hint of satisfaction by reacting. “And you need to leave.”

With sudden, tense rigidity, his hands clenched into fists and his entire frame coiled like a trapped animal. “I just—I need—” he stammered, his voice betraying his inner turmoil.

At that very moment, the sound of a car alarm outside startled him; his head whipped around as panic flared in his eyes, and in a heartbeat, he bolted. The door slammed shut behind him with such force that the glass trembled once more, echoing his hasty departure.

Jamie emerged from the back of the shop, his brow furrowed with concern at the disruption. “What was that about?”

I exhaled slowly, trying to dispel the unsettling chill that crept up my spine. “I’m not entirely sure.”

Approaching the front window, I peered out into the empty street, searching for any sign of him. The corridor of pavement lay deserted; he had vanished without a trace. Yet, there was something haunting in the lingering intensity of his panicked gaze—a look that unsettled me far deeper than his sudden exit.

Jamie gave my shoulder a gentle nudge. “You okay Vivian?”

“Yeah,” I lied softly, turning back toward the comforting confines of the shop. “Let’s just get back to work.”

The day trudged on as routine, yet that brief encounter clung to my thoughts like a shadow. Even as I arranged bouquets and assisted customers with practiced ease, my eyes kept wandering to the door, half-expecting him to return.

Later that evening, after carefully locking up the shop, I stepped out into the crisp embrace of autumn. The city lights flickered in the distance like scattered stars, and with each step home—my apartment only a few blocks away, nestled quietly above a charming little tea shop—I tried to shake off the lingering unease. Climbing the stairs to my building, I released a long, pent-up breath as I reached my own door.

Just as I extended my hand to unlock it, a sudden, inexplicable prickle raced down my spine—a cold, insistent sensation that whispered of unseen eyes. Instinctively, I spun around, scanning the dimly lit street below. The sidewalk was deserted, and the parked cars lay silent in the night.

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