I stare at the flowers.
They are roses. Deep, blood-red roses. Dozens of them. A lush, thorny explosion of color in the monochrome room.
Silas?
No. Silas likes black lilies. Silas likes darkness. Red roses are too... conventional. Too passionate in a way he isn't.
I walk toward them slowly. The scent of them is overpowering, cloying.
There is a small white envelope tucked into the greenery.
I kneel down and pull it out. My fingers are shaking so badly I almost drop it.
I tear it open.
The handwriting is elegant, cursive, old-fashioned. Not Silas’s jagged, sharp scrawl.
I read the card.
My Dear Mrs. Vane,
A pretty title for such a pretty payment. Your father spoke highly of your assets, but I admit, the photos don't do you justice.
Enjoy the honeymoon. I look forward to collecting the interest on your father’s debt very soon.
Say hello to your husband for me.
— Nikolai Sokolov
The world tilts.
The card slips from my fingers and flutters to the floor.
Nikolai Sokolov. The brother of the men Silas killed. The Butcher.
He knows where I am. He sent flowers to the penthouse. He bypassed Silas’s security.
This isn't a gift. It’s a threat. It’s a promise.
He’s saying:I can touch you.
A sudden, sharp noise makes me scream.
The landline phone rings.
It’s piercing, demanding.
I back away from the flowers, back away from the phone. I don't want to answer. I want to curl up in a ball and disappear.
But it keeps ringing.
I pick it up, bringing it to my ear with a trembling hand.
"H-hello?"
"Step away from the flowers, Ivy."
Silas’s voice is ice. Cold, hard, lethal.
