And she was frozen.
Penny didn’t know. Not about the package. Not about the rose. Not about the storm winding tighter inside her since she unwrapped that first box.
Telling her would change everything.
Would pull her in.
Not tonight.
Instead, Arden crossed the room and sank into the couch, arms folding tight around her ribs. It wasn’t the cold.
Her eyes found the rose again. It sat there, too perfect, as if it belonged. Crimson petals catching the low light, too vivid to be natural.
It whispered.
Watched.
The apartment buzzed with familiar sounds—the fridge, Penny’s TV.
Normal.
But not safe.
Camouflage.
She exhaled, slow and shallow.
The anonymous messages. The gifts. The way ordinary things had been turned against her.
Her arms tightened, but the knot in her chest stayed.
Her eyes darted to the rose.
It wasn’t a gesture.
It was a move.
A warning.
A promise.
Someone was ahead of her.
This wasn’t affection.
This was control.
Wrapped in satin and thorns.
And whoever thought she’d fold?
They didn’t know her.
Not anymore.
She wasn’t easy.
She wasn’t breakable.
