She was used to being loved loudly. Extravagantly. Expensively.

Mark flew her to Milan for a weekend. Bought her bags she was almost afraid to touch. Made reservations at places where jeans simply weren't allowed — and she'd stand in front of her closet, anxious, trying to pick the right dress.

He never asked for anything in return. That was the trick. He didn't have to.

But the night before Valentine's Day, she found a bouquet by her door.

Not in a branded box. No sleek ribbon, no receipt. Just wild daisies, a little sleepy, tied with kitchen twine. Slightly crooked. Like someone's hands shook.

No note. No name.

And she just… stood there. In the hallway, still in her socks. Staring at these stupid, simple flowers that probably cost less than her last coffee.

That's when it hit her — not like lightning. Like a door she'd kept locked for years, finally opening on its own.

All her life, someone had loved her without needing to own her.

Without a single receipt. Without a single scene.

Without once saying "after everything I've done for you."

And she never even noticed.

Because he never made her.