Roman took his promise to handle things personally very seriously.

By late Tuesday afternoon, Blair found herself curled into the oversized leather chair in his home office, watching him argue with a florist like it was a hostile corporate takeover.

“How many fucking times?” Roman snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose, the phone pressed to his ear. “No pink. She doesn’t like pink. I don’t like pink. Nobody here likes pink. Stick to whites, cream, greens—anything but fucking ...