The campaign shoot ran two hours over schedule, three wardrobe changes and a lighting setup that the photographer scrapped twice before he found the angle he wanted, and by the time Sam finally got a break, her feet ached enough that she nearly skipped checking her dressing room altogether. The roses were waiting on the table before she'd even peeled off her second look, a dozen of them, the pale pink she'd mentioned once in an interview three years ago and never expected anyone to remember. The card sat tucked into the wrapping, same handwriting as always, small and slanted and instantly recognizable even from across the room.
Thinking of you.
Three words. No name attached, not that she needed one.
