Why hadn’t she replied—if only with a simple thank you?

The question drifted from your lips as you gazed over the sweep of the London skyline, its winter lights shimmering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of your Kensington apartment.You had sent her a floral arrangement exquisite enough to charm even the iciest of aristocratic hearts—your assistant had sourced the blooms from a Knightsbridge atelier that dealt more often with royalty than civilians. And you knew it had arrived; the courier’s confirmation lay accusingly in your inbox.Perhaps the card had slipped free, you mused, lost somewhere between the bouquet’s velvet petals. She might not have known whom to reply to. But then… surely she could have asked the courier? Her silence felt deliberate, or at least deliberate enough to unsettle you.Your spiralling speculation was cut short by the sharp trill of the apartment buzzer. Your car had arrived.The Mayfair Gala awaited.And she would be there—of that, you felt certain.Soon enough, you could ask her yourself.