Page 87 of Twisted Violet
“She stayed with you that night?” I ask, quieter than I mean to.
Rome nods once and swallows hard.
There’s no tension. No ego. Just the quiet ache of us all realizing we’re not the only ones she matters to.
After a beat, Niko looks at him. “So you think she heard us.”
“I think she heard something,” Rome says. “Maybe not the whole thing, but enough.”
I nod my head. “If she thinks we were only ever here for her because we were hired… then yeah. Of course she’s shutting down.”
No one says anything, because there’s nothing left to say.
She let us in, and we gave her every fucking reason to regret it.
THIRTY-ONE
VIOLET
The water is too hot.
I scrub at the same plate for the third time, letting the heat bite into my skin until my fingertips sting. The soap suds slide over porcelain and disappear down the drain in lazy spirals.
It’s mindless. Soothing in a way. Something to do with my hands so the focus isn’t on the ache still tucked beneath my ribs.
The apartment phone buzzes, sharp and sudden, cutting through the quiet like a blade. I dry my hands on a dish towel and cross the kitchen to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Miss Warner?” a voice says through the speaker. “You’ve got a delivery downstairs.”
I blink. “I didn’t order anything.”
“It’s addressed to you.”
I pause.
“Okay,” I say, too confused to say anything else. “I’ll be right down.”
The moment I step into the lobby, I see it.
A massive bouquet of roses.
At least three dozen, maybe more. Deep red. Dramatic. Wrapped in expensive paper with gold ribbon curling down the sides. They’re sitting on a rolling cart beside the desk, looking completely out of place next to the matte concrete walls and polished steel security posts.
The front desk attendant smiles politely. “These came for you.”
I walk over slowly, like the flowers might bite.
The scent is immediate. Overpowering, syrupy, invasive.
I force my expression to stay neutral as I scribble my name on the tablet and accept the bouquet.
“They’re beautiful,” the guard offers.
I nod, but I don’t agree.
I hate roses. They’re showy and impersonal. A lazy default when someone wants to look thoughtful without trying. And the moment I lift them into my arms, the weight of that truth hits hard. One of the guys bought me roses.
