The morning sun felt like an intruder in the penthouse's cold perfection, its light reflecting off the marble surfaces with a blinding, clinical glare. Elara found the package the moment she stepped into the kitchen—a small, white box sitting like a tombstone on the marble island. No postage. No return address. Just her name, Elara, written in a thin, elegant script that was definitely not Adrian's sharp, aggressive handwriting.
Her fingers trembled as she lifted the lid, the cardboard scraping with a sound that seemed too loud in the silent room. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was a single dried white rose. Its petals were no longer soft; they were the color of bone dust, brittle and ready to crumble at a touch. Beneath the flower lay a typed note on thick, expensive cream paper:
He's watching you closer than you think. - A Friend
A cold shiver trickled down her spine, settling in the marrow of her bones. A friend. She had no friends in this gilded hell. The elevator hadn't chimed. The security system, which Adrian claimed was impenetrable, hadn't alerted her to any breach. Yet here it was—a ghost in a box, sitting in the heart of her sanctuary.
"What is that?"
Adrian's voice cut through the silence like a blade. He stood in the doorway of his study, already dressed in a charcoal suit that made him look like part of the building's architecture. His gray eyes zeroed in on the rose in her hand with predatory focus. He crossed the room in three long strides and snatched the flower from her, his expression hardening into a mask of pure ice as he read the note.
"It was just here," Elara said, her voice thin and wavering. "How did it get in, Adrian? You said I was safe here."
"No one gets in here without my thumbprint or a code," he said, his voice flat and final. But Elara noticed his knuckles were white around the stem of the dried flower, and the muscle in his jaw was ticking violently.
"Well, someone did. Unless you've taken up the hobby of leaving me cryptic, dead floral arrangements to brighten my morning."
He ignored her sarcasm, studying the note and the texture of the packaging with an intensity that made her skin crawl. He pulled out his phone, his thumb flying across the screen as he hissed a terse command to his security team. When he looked back at her, his gaze was no longer just cold; it was a weapon. "Did you speak to anyone unusual last night at the Met? Anyone who wasn't on the approved guest list?"
Elara's mind raced back to the sea of faces. "There was an older man. He had a silver cane and a pin shaped like a silver eagle. He asked if the dress held memories."
"Klaus Richter," Adrian said, the name dropping like a lead stone into a deep well. "An old associate of my grandfather's. A man who thinks the world stopped turning in 1945." He threw the rose into the trash with a gesture of pure disgust. "Forget it. It's a parlor trick. You have a fitting at noon. Don't be late."
"Forget it?" A disbelieving, hysterical laugh escaped her. "Someone bypassed your multi-million dollar security to leave a threat on your kitchen counter, and you want me to go pick out more silk?"
"It's not a threat to your life, Elara. It's a message to mine." He poured himself a cup of black coffee, his movements too controlled to be natural. "A dried white rose was my grandfather's signature. He sent them to rivals he had already ruined—a final 'thank you' for the sport. Klaus is reminding me of the old ways. He's testing my... attachment to my new possession."
The word possession stung like a whip, but the implication was even worse. The rose wasn't about her safety; it was a challenge to Adrian's dominance. I can reach what you value.
"What are you going to do?" she whispered, feeling smaller than she ever had in her life.
He turned to her, and for a split second, the mask dropped. The look in his eyes was pure, unadulterated violence—a dark promise of blood. "I'm going to remind Klaus Richter that the Blackwood he's dealing with doesn't send flowers. I burn gardens to the ground. Now go. Valentina is waiting."
The fitting with Valentina was a somber, claustrophobic affair. The emerald velvet gown they were working on was majestic, its weight pulling at Elara's shoulders, but it felt more like a suit of armor than a dress. Valentina was quieter than usual, her sharp eyes missing nothing as she moved around Elara with a mouthful of pins.
"You seem troubled, little bird," Valentina said, pinning a seam at Elara's waist with surgical precision. "Your heart is beating so hard I can see it through the velvet."
"Is it that obvious?" Elara deflected, staring at her own pale reflection.
"The rose." Valentina didn't make it a question. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Klaus Richter is a vulture. He doesn't hunt; he circles the wounded until they stop moving. The fact that he's circling you means he smells blood in the water. He thinks Adrian is weak because of you." She met Elara's eyes in the mirror, her gaze full of a strange, dark pity. "Be careful who you trust, Elara. In this world, a friendly face is often just the mask the knife wears before it slips between your ribs."
Another warning. Another riddle. Elara felt as if she were drowning in a sea of unspoken threats.
Desperate for air that didn't smell of expensive fabric and ancient secrets, Elara directed the driver to the hospital after the fitting. She needed something real. She found her mother sleeping, her face peaceful under the harsh, sterile lights of the ICU. Sitting there, holding her mother's frail, papery hand, was the only thing that kept Elara from shattering.
On her way out, she ran into Dr. San Vasquez at the nurses' station. His smile was a sudden lifeline in a world of ice.
"You look like you've seen a ghost, Elara," he said, his voice warm with genuine concern. He stepped away from the desk, moving into her personal space in a way that felt comforting rather than threatening. "Is everything alright? The Blackwood house... it's a lot for anyone."
"I'm just tired, San," she lied, but she lingered. She hungered for his normalcy. They spoke for nearly twenty minutes about her mother's improving vitals, but the subtext was different. He looked at her not as a "possession," but as a woman.
"If you ever need a place to just... exist without the cameras," he said, his eyes softening. "I mean it. My door is always open."
The moment was shattered as the elevator doors hissed open to reveal Isabella.
The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop twenty degrees. Isabella's polished, corporate smile didn't even pretend to reach her eyes. "Mrs. Blackwood. I was just coming to check on your mother's status for Mr. Blackwood's daily report." Her gaze sliced to San like a razor. "Doctor. I didn't realize you were on personal terms with the family."
"Isabella," San replied, his tone cooling instantly.
"I'll escort you back, Elara," Isabella said, her hand closing like a vice around Elara's arm. The grip was a clear message: You are being watched.
In the town car, the silence was suffocating, heavy with Isabella's unspoken judgment. "Unscheduled detours are not permitted under the current security protocol," Isabella stated, staring straight ahead. "And fraternizing with the medical staff creates... unfortunate perceptions. Mr. Blackwood does not appreciate perceptions."
"He's my mother's doctor, Isabella. Not a conspirator."
"He's a man. You are a woman in a high-stakes transaction." Isabella finally turned, her eyes like chips of frozen glass. "Understand what that rose was this morning. It was a shot across the bow. It wasn't meant to scare you; it was meant to show Adrian his weakness. And in this world, weaknesses are exploited until they are destroyed."
The car stopped at the Blackwood Tower. Isabella leaned closer, her expensive, cloying perfume suddenly feeling like it was choking Elara. "Play your part. Smile. Wear the dresses. Be the beautiful, silent wife. It's the only way to stay safe, Elara. For you and for your mother."
Elara entered the empty penthouse, Isabella's words echoing in her mind. Weakness. Transaction. Silent.
She retreated to her bedroom, exhaustion pulling at her bones like lead weights. As she began to unbutton her coat, her phone buzzed on the dresser. An unknown number. She picked it up, her breath hitching.
Unknown: Did you like my flower? Some things last longer than they should. Especially debts.
Her blood turned to slush. She typed back, her fingers clumsy and shaking: Who is this? How did you get in here?
The three dots appeared, pulsed with a rhythmic, taunting energy, then vanished. No reply came.
She deleted the thread instantly, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard it hurt. The vast, beautiful windows of the penthouse suddenly felt less like views and more like giant eyes, watching her every move. She felt like a specimen under a microscope.
That evening, Adrian worked late. She ate dinner alone at the vast marble island, the repetitive click of her fork against the plate the only sound in the five-thousand-square-foot tomb. She felt like a ghost haunting her own life.
She went to bed early, locking her bedroom door—a pathetic gesture in a house Adrian controlled, but it made her feel slightly less exposed. She fell into a fitful, shallow sleep, dreaming of white roses that turned into falling ash every time she tried to breathe.
A sound woke her.
It wasn't the elevator. It wasn't the hum of the city. It was a soft, distinct click.
Her bedroom door—the one she had locked—was opening.
A shadow filled the doorway, backlit by the faint, amber light from the hallway. Elara sat up, her heart leaping into her throat, a scream dying in her lungs as the figure stepped into the room, silent and shadows-drenched.
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