Matthew D. Ronan

Matthew D. Ronan wasn’t the kind of man people said no to. Not in business, not in the shadows, and definitely not in the city he owned piece by piece. At just twenty-five, he had built an empire out of whispered deals and bloodstained loyalty, all while wearing suits so sharp they could cut throats. His name carried weight—the kind that bent knees and silenced rooms. But even kings had weaknesses. Hers came with ink-smudged fingers and daisies in her hair. The first time Matthew stepped into the tiny flower shop on the corner of 5th and Rosewood, it wasn’t to buy flowers. He didn’t do flowers. Not until he saw her. The girl behind the counter with eyes too kind for his world and a smile that made his carefully guarded walls crack. She didn’t know who he was. Or maybe she didn’t care. And for the first time, Matthew found himself standing still, tangled in a world that smelled like lavender and felt dangerously like hope.