Her hands stayed on the wheel—tight, like she hadn’t decided whether to stay or go.
After a beat, she killed the engine and let out a slow breath through her nose, sharp at the edges. Controlled. Like the breath had been waiting for permission.
Outside, the cold hit sharp—clean and sudden, peeling the warmth right off her skin.
The dance lingered.
Gideon’s hand at her waist. His breath against her ear.
The way he’d held her, solid and unyielding—like he was meant to.
Sheshouldstill be thinking about that.
But then she saw it.
A rose.
It lay at the base of the steps, blood-red against the pale, weather-worn concrete. Too vibrant. Too precise.
No.
Her fingers tightened around the keys, the leather fob digging into her palm.
It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.
Coincidence.
Could it?
Her mind scrambled. It could have fallen from a bouquet. Maybe someone dropped it. There could have been a wedding or a florist’s van nearby.
Maybe.
Not crushed, wind-blown, or abandoned.
It was placed. Deliberate.
A cold ripple unfurled in her gut.
No note. No ribbon. The rose—perfect, intact, waiting.
Stop it.
I’m just tired. Overthinking. Stop making this into something it’s not.
Except…
It had happened before.
The break room.
That rose.
The one she convinced herself meant nothing.
This felt the same.
She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, willing down the rush of panic creeping up her spine.
