CHAPTER 1: When the White Rose Collides with the Vulture in the Sanctuary
Prologue
To the lost fragments of the soul...
Soon, you will find the Most High reigning within the depths of your mind—but He will not wear the face you once knew. For you are the angel He was destined to protect.
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Heaven is a fortress, and Hell is a cage. But when the scales of justice sink too deep into the quagmire, the Most High does not send an angel to fix it. Angels are for miracles. For the filth of this world, He descends as a Divine Scourge.
He manifests not in light, but in shadow. He adopts a demon’s visage to act as the brutal hand of the Most High.
The purification doesn’t begin with a prayer. It begins with a slaughter.
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Chap 1: When the White Rose Collides with the Vulture in the Sanctuary
The door burst open. The peace of the lavender scent vanished. Stepping through the door, thick with the smell of cigars and vintage cologne. My eyes met two bodyguards, the type who protect politicians, in professional suits. I shifted my gaze to the center of attention, he sat on a light brown sofa, the chair too small for him.
I approached the desk. Walked. Inhaled. Deeply. Lungs full. And spoke with courtesy:
“Good day, sir. How may I be of assistance?”
He remained seated, but his gaze met mine with a razor-sharp edge—a look so keen it could lacerate the air with a single blink. A black felt fedora rested on his knee, while his left hand gripped the head of an intricately carved cane.
Even from a distance, the heavy, sacred scent of agarwood drifted toward me. On his right index finger, a solid gold Gothic ring engraved with a massive ‘V’ caught the light. He smirked—a wolfish, cunning grin—as if he’d found something delicious and dark right in my sanctuary.
“Greetings, Doctor Grace," he began. That voice alone was enough to send a chill down my spine. He paused, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest. "Ah... or should I say, Doctor ROSE?”
The single word “Rose” escaped his lips, brutal, parched, yet capable of slicing into my chest with a razor-sharp edge. Dr. Rose? It echoed unexpectedly, my nameplate, sitting right in the center of the desk, large, striking. My professional ID pinned to my lab coat.
DR. GRACE – TRAUMA PSYCHOLOGY
I kept my face void of expression, I did not let the name Rose invade my mind, but my heart was pounding relentlessly within my chest.
I wasn’t sure if I had betrayed a hint of unease, he was sharp enough to perceive any shift in my facial muscles. I opened the therapy notebook, feeling the tip of the pen as the only anchor keeping me from collapsing. If I looked straight into his eyes for just one more second. I would let that word “Rose” seize control of me.
“May I ask your name?”
“Silas Vane. I am here to say hello… because I am your husband’s confidant.”
I wasn’t surprised that he mentioned my husband, but I didn’t think this was any kind of pleasant encounter. A businessman and a politician?
This is an encounter born of a manipulative empire. A politician needs money as a launchpad to propel him into the seat of power, and conveniently, a businessman with wealth to spare.
Is Dominic truly okay with this situation? I began to question his safety. Why did he drop by for a mere greeting, a staged warning, because the name Rose had said it all.
I am keeping it from invading me, I have done so for the past sixteen years, and I can keep doing it, before he leaves.
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Vane,” I replied.
In a single, brief opening, I shifted my gaze to the girl beside him.
She was about eighteen, twenty, maybe not even that.
Wearing thigh-high boots, a black dress with a slit from the thigh, running straight down, supple, along with long layers of flowing chiffon. High-set breasts, a lace camisole that could barely contain them.
A haunting, rebellious beauty. Yet eyes brimming with fear. I saw the pink diamond necklace, flawlessly translucent on the girl’s neck. I knew it had been inside… the very pocket of my husband’s suit jacket not long ago.
Was it a gift?
Silas’s gaze shifted to the vase of white roses on the desk, Nancy always prepared a vase of white roses still drenched in dew, every morning, exactly as I requested. He let out a loud laugh, a laugh low, dull, and sharp-edged like shards of broken glass. No, it was incredibly heavy, without a single echo after shattering.
“I had imagined Rose would be a blood-red rose,” his gaze shifted toward me, steeped in predatory intent, “but it seems, instead, she is a pure white rose.”
The skin beneath my lab coat crawled. Goosebumps, I could imagine the tiny hairs following suit, standing on end. Once again, the name Rose escaped his lips, it bore a weight like thousands of boulders collapsing onto my chest.
With the hope that I would react with caution, concealment, or a tremor? He stared at me with scrutinizing intensity, ten brief seconds, yet I felt our gazes had frozen over, as if an ice age had just occurred. I had to speak, to shatter that ice before it petrified me entirely.
“Thank you for such an extravagant compliment, Mr. Vane.”
It seemed he had failed to find what he sought, the very intent that brought him here.
“Rose... I do hope Dominic has been tending to his rose well. Now, I must see ‘The Den Mother,’ so I shall disturb the Doctor no further.”
The girl stood up, linked her arm with his, and left the office, followed at the very end by the two bodyguards. His hand gave a slight squeeze to her backside.
My heart wrenched; children should be in school where they belong, you shouldn’t be by an old man’s side like that, regardless of the reason. I didn’t realize the fury burrowing from my fingernails into my palms, clenching, etching deep marks as I witnessed what he did to that girl—who was only the age of his granddaughter.
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I calmed myself, notebook, pen,
I always write down things that warrant attention. A habit from when I analyze patients, they are not ill, they are profoundly wounded and have lost the ability to connect with themselves. I hate the word ‘Patient’.
I wrote with feverish speed.
“Who is Silas Vane?”
“Investigate the connection between him and him?”
“Why does he have a hold over me?” “Is this truly a handshake?”
“What did he mean by the blood-drenched rose?” — Right after those words, I dropped the pen on the floor, ink splattered everywhere, yet how could I smell the overwhelming scent of blood in the air.
He didn’t just know the name Rose; he was alluding to something more. I ignored the fallen pen, the pungent, metallic scent of blood thick in my lungs, so vivid it made me want to retch immediately.
I grabbed another pen and continued:
“What is he hinting at regarding Dominic?”
“Who is that girl?”
“What will he do? What did he mean by meeting ‘The Den Mother’?” — Damn it, there it is. He’s alluding to Mina’s school; he’s hinting at the caregivers.
At this point, I can’t continue to piece these fragments together anymore.
I tore toward Mina’s school at a speed only a mother would dare when her child is in peril. From a distance, held back by the red light at the intersection, I saw him—him, undeniably—climbing into his car and pulling away. I hammered the steering wheel, my mind screaming the countdown: 10, 9, 8… Yellow light. I couldn’t even wait for those final three seconds; I floored the gas and surged forward.
Vane had been at Mina’s school.
My heart thrashed wildly; I began to pray to God.
“Please, God, keep Mina in her classroom, held safe in her nanny’s arms; let her eyes remain bright and clear, and let not even a flicker of fear touch her.”
I slammed the brakes in front of the school gate, the tires screeched against the pavement—a piercing shriek that echoed my own inner turmoil. The world around me dissolved into a blur of smeared colors and hollow, meaningless sounds.
I charged forward, cutting through the polite greetings, until I finally reached Mina. I collapsed, pulling her into a desperate, crushing embrace.
Oh Lord, I thank Thee for hearing my prayer, - even though I know Thou hast remained silent to thousands of my prayers to protect me in such a manner before. But this time, Thou hast heard me; therefore, I beseech Thee—
Protect my little Mina with every ounce of Thy might, cast an inviolable circle around her that even the devil himself cannot breach, as recompense for the way Thou didst forsake me.
I do not know if God gave His assent to that plea. But in that moment, for me, I had forged that covenant with God by my own hand. I have sealed it.
