Soon,she’d stop searching for logic in the cracks.
She’d stop fighting the unease and listen to what it was trying to tell her.
That someone saw her.
Not the version she presented.
Not the polished composure or practiced wit.
The fire underneath.
And he didn’t want to tame it.
He wanted to worship it.
Not like Blackwell wrapped in suits, crowned by legacy, dripping with control.
Blackwell didn’t see her—he saw a possession. But he would never try.
He would standin the center of her blaze and burn.
Because fate hadn’t simply brought her here.
It had delivered her to him.
The rose wasn’t a threat.
It was a promise.
She was his.
She just didn’t know it yet.
His fingers brushedthe petals before slipping away. The lights above flickered once—just enough to shift the shadows, but he didn’t pause.
There was more to come.
More to show her.
This rose was only the beginning.
Each message. Each whisper. Each reminder.
They would bring her closer. Strip away the walls until all that was left was truth.
And if anyonetried to stand in the way, Blackwell included?
Well.
Fire had a way of consuming everything.
Soon, she would understand.
Who truly saw her.
Who truly knew the heat behind her steel.
Who would never ask her to dim.
