Chapter 1
The First Rose
The first rose arrived on a Tuesday.
I remember because Tuesdays were usually boring.
I woke up, made coffee, answered a few messages, and spent most of the afternoon convincing myself that my life was perfectly normal.
Until I opened my front door.
A single black rose rested against the welcome mat.
No note. No name. No explanation.
Just a rose.
I picked it up carefully, turning its stem between my fingers. Its petals were almost impossibly dark, and a small silver ribbon had been tied around it.
There was something beautiful about it.
And something horribly wrong.
I looked down the hallway.
Empty.
“Very funny,” I whispered.
I brought it inside and placed it in a glass of water on my kitchen counter.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I kept thinking about the rose. About who had left it. About whether someone had been standing outside my apartment, watching me pick it up.
At 2:17 a.m., my phone vibrated.
Unknown Number.
Unknown: Did you like your gift?
My stomach tightened.
I stared at the message before typing.
Me: Who is this?
The reply came almost immediately.
Unknown: Someone who appreciates beautiful things.
Me: If this is a joke, it’s not funny.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Unknown: You shouldn’t leave your curtains open, Lillian.
My blood went cold.
I slowly turned toward the living room window.
The curtains were open.
I hadn’t opened them.
I got out of bed, grabbed my phone, and rushed to the window. My fingers trembled as I pulled the curtains shut.
Then another message arrived.
Unknown: Good girl.
I called the police.
They came, searched the apartment, checked the locks, and told me there was no sign of forced entry.
They suggested changing my locks.
I agreed.
But when I returned to my bedroom, something was different.
My pillow had been moved.
And sitting perfectly in the center of my bed was another black rose.
This one had a note.
Four words.
He isn’t the dangerous one.
I didn’t sleep that night.
At 11:43 the following evening, I met Damien Cross.
I was leaving a little bookstore downtown when I noticed a black car parked across the street.
The driver’s window lowered.
A man sat behind the wheel.
Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
He was watching me.
I quickened my pace.
“Excuse me.”
His voice stopped me.
I turned.
He had stepped out of the car.
“Do I know you?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
I frowned. “That’s reassuring.”
He almost smiled.
“You’re Lillian Rose.”
My heart skipped.
“How do you know my name?”
He glanced toward the street behind me.
“Because someone has made a very unfortunate mistake.”
“What mistake?”
He looked directly into my eyes.
“Choosing you.”
I stepped backward.
“Listen, I don’t know who you think you are, but—”
“Damien.”
“What?”
“My name. Damien Cross.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small photograph.
My photograph.
It was taken outside my apartment building.
Yesterday.
I felt sick.
“Where did you get that?”
His expression changed.
For the first time, the confidence disappeared from his face.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out.”
He handed me the photograph.
On the back, written in black ink, were six words.
She’s mine. Stop getting in the way.
I looked up.
Damien was no longer smiling.
“Get in the car, Lillian.”
“Absolutely not.”
He nodded slowly, almost as though he’d expected that answer.
“Then listen carefully.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice.
“Someone has been following you for months.”
My throat tightened.
“And tonight, sweetheart, they’re getting impatient.”
End of Chapter One.
