A warning. Not a gift.
He rose without a word and crossed to the kitchen. Under the sink, he found the trash bags and gathered every single rose: fresh, fading, fallen.
One by one. Methodical. Final.
He tied the bag tight, knuckles pale.
She was out there, laughing. Singing. Finally letting herself breathe.
And here, in the quiet, he was calculating the breach.
He brushed his hand along the counter’s edge, where her body had pressed against his just minutes before.
Then he reached for his phone.
He didn’t call. Not immediately.
Not until the anger had settled low in his chest. Dense. Deliberate.
He looked at the bag by the door. Heavier than it should’ve been.
How the hell had no one seen this?
Christian’s team was supposed to be watching the building. After the shattered window, there were protocols. Surveillance. Coverage. Oversight.
Someone had trespassed over and over—unseen, unchallenged.
His jaw flexed.
She hadn’t told him. He understood that now. The silence wasn’t forgetfulness.
It was fear.
He tapped Christian’s name and waited. When the line picked up, he didn’t pace. He didn’t shout.
“She didn’t say anything. But I’m looking at more than a dozen. Some fresh. Some rotting.”
A pause.
“Find out how the hell they got there.”
Another pause.
“And if your team missed this,” he said, voice low and cold, “I want to know why.”
He ended the call and set the phone down, the quiet click like a final nail.
His gaze stayed fixed on the door.
She hadn’t been gone long, but already the air felt wrong without her.
Gideon was in her space.
Not orbiting. Inside.
Among her things.
Breathing her air.
