Page 39 of Desperate Crimes
Beautiful.
Crimson petals edged in black, a color I’ve only ever seen this perfect in photoshopped pictures or high-concept fantasy bouquets.
He got me black roses.
My heart thuds.
Between those and the Christmas tree, I have to wonder—is my kidnapper obsessed with me?
He knows me better than I imagined.
I always have a tree in my room at home regardless of the month or time of year.
It’s my tradition.
My little slice of joy.
No matter how chaotic life gets, no matter how many security guards hover outside my windows or how overbearing my parents act—Christmas is mine.
I never told anyone about that.
Not really.
And yet here it is.
Recreated in a way no one could ever guess unless they knew.
Unless they’d been watching.
I walk toward the tree slowly, eyes darting over the ornaments.
Some are vintage.
Others are clearly custom.
A snow globe with a blonde woman inside that looks almost like me.
A little book ornament with Princess engraved on the spine.
One—my fingers brush it gently—is shaped like a snake. Another is a wolf.
My stomach tightens.
This wasn’t thrown together.
This was crafted.
For me.
And suddenly I don’t know if I want to cry or scream.
Because this?
This is beautiful.
Romantic.
Thoughtful.
