Elara woke to silence that felt like condemnation.
She'd barely slept, her mind replaying the kiss, the confession, the way she'd weaponized Isabella's memory to create distance she simultaneously wanted and feared. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard his voice: I love you. And her cruel response: I'm not Isabella.
I hurt him. I deliberately hurt him because I was scared of what I was feeling.
Morning light filtered through the blackout curtains she hadn't fully closed, painting the room in shades of gray that matched her emotional state. She should get up, should face whatever consequences came from last night's emotional carnage.
But what if he's waiting out there? What if he's not? Which is worse?
The decision was made for her by a soft knock on the door—not Kael's authoritative rap, but something more tentative.
"Ms. Chen?" A woman's voice, unfamiliar. "Mr. Thorne asked me to inform you that breakfast is ready whenever you'd like it."
Mr. Thorne. Not Kael. He's using staff as intermediaries now.
"Thank you," she called through the door. "I'll be out in a minute."
She dressed mechanically—jeans and a sweater from the designer wardrobe he'd curated for her—and tried to prepare herself for whatever version of him she'd encounter. The Ghost who'd burned Lucien's warehouse? The vulnerable man who'd held photographs with trembling hands? The cold businessman who'd shut down after she'd rejected his confession?
All of them. None of them. He's all of those things and I don't know which one I'll find.
The penthouse felt different in the morning light—less like a fortress, more like a stage set waiting for actors to bring it to life. Breakfast sat on the dining table in silver-domed dishes that suggested a hotel more than a home, arranged with the kind of precision that spoke of professional staff.
But Kael wasn't there.
He's avoiding me. Or giving me space. Or both.
A note sat beside her plate, written in his precise handwriting:
Meetings all day. Won't be back until evening. Make yourself comfortable. —K
Make yourself comfortable. Like this is a hotel instead of a prison. Like last night didn't happen.
She should have felt relieved by his absence—should have welcomed the opportunity to process without his overwhelming presence. Instead, she felt the same hollow ache from when the penthouse had been "too quiet."
This is pathetic. You rejected him twelve hours ago and you already miss him.
The elevator chimed while she was picking at breakfast she had no appetite for, and her heart did a stupid leap of hope before rational thought reminded her that Kael wouldn't arrive via the main elevator—he had his private access.
It's probably Viktor with a security update or staff with supplies or—
The elevator doors opened to reveal a delivery person holding an enormous bouquet of white roses. At least three dozen, arranged with the kind of artistry that suggested significant expense and deliberate choice.
Flowers. Someone sent me flowers.
"Delivery for Elara Chen," the man said, checking his tablet. "From Mercier International."
The name hit her like ice water. Mercier. Lucien.
"I... there must be some mistake," she said, even as her hands reached for the vase automatically.
"No mistake, ma'am. Sender was very specific about the delivery address." He handed her the flowers with the professional indifference of someone who'd made thousands of deliveries and didn't care about the implications.
She signed for them in a daze, barely registering the weight of the crystal vase as the elevator doors closed behind the courier. The roses were beautiful—pristine white petals without a single imperfection, arranged with the kind of perfection that money could buy.
Why? Why would Lucien send me flowers? He tried to have us killed.
A small envelope nestled among the blooms, her name written in elegant calligraphy. She pulled it out with trembling fingers, already knowing this was a terrible idea but unable to stop herself.
The card inside was thick, expensive paper embossed with gold:
Dear Elara,
Thank you for a lovely dance at the Meridian Gala. I'm sorry our acquaintance was interrupted by such unfortunate circumstances. I hope we'll have the opportunity to continue our conversation when tempers have cooled.
The offer of assistance remains open, should you ever need it.
Yours in admiration,
Lucien Mercier
No. No, no, no. This is a provocation. This is him declaring war in the language of flowers and polite notes.
She should throw them away immediately. Should destroy the card before anyone saw it. Should pretend this delivery never happened.
But Kael has security on everything. Probably cameras in the elevator. He'll know about this delivery within minutes if he doesn't already.
As if summoned by her thoughts, her phone buzzed with a text:
Kael: Did you receive a delivery?
He knows. Of course he knows. Probably has real-time alerts for anything that arrives at the penthouse.
Elara: Yes. Flowers.
Kael: From?
Should I lie? Would lying even work when he probably already knows?
Elara: Lucien Mercier.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again. The longest pause she'd ever experienced in their text exchanges.
Kael: I'm coming home.
Oh God. He's coming home. Right now. In the middle of his "meetings all day."
Elara: You don't have to—
Kael: I'm already in the car.
She stared at the roses like they were coiled snakes, at the note that was either a genuine olive branch or a calculated provocation, at her phone that had gone ominously silent.
This is bad. This is really, really bad.
Twenty minutes felt like an eternity. She tried to compose herself, to prepare for whatever version of Kael arrived. She even considered hiding the flowers—but that would only make things worse.
He's going to lose his mind. The Ghost is going to completely lose his mind.
The sound of his private elevator arriving made her jump. She turned to face the entrance, heart hammering, watching as the doors opened to reveal—
Not the businessman in perfect suits.
Not the vulnerable man who'd confessed his love.
The Ghost.
He looked like violence barely contained in human form—hair slightly disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it, tie loosened, eyes dark with the kind of rage that preceded very bad things. But it was his complete stillness that terrified her most—the controlled quiet of a predator deciding exactly how to strike.
He's going to kill Lucien. He's actually going to kill him.
His gaze found the roses immediately, taking in the pristine white blooms, the expensive vase, the crystal-clear message they represented. For a moment, he just stared at them, his expression unreadable.
"Where's the note?" His voice was soft, deadly calm.
Don't lie. Don't make this worse by lying.
"Here." She held out the card with trembling fingers.
He took it from her without touching her hand—a deliberate avoidance that hurt more than it should have. Read it once, twice, his jaw tightening with each word.
"A lovely dance," he repeated, voice still that dangerous calm. "Unfortunate circumstances. Offer of assistance."
Say something. Anything. Don't just stand there waiting for the explosion.
"Kael, I didn't—"
"I know." He cut her off, still staring at the note. "I know you didn't invite this. I know you're not conspiring with the man who tried to kill us."
Then why does he look like he's about to murder someone? Oh. Right. He's going to murder Lucien.
"This is just provocation," she said quickly. "He's trying to get a reaction from you. Don't let him—"
The sound of paper tearing interrupted her. Kael methodically shredded the note, his movements controlled but with an undercurrent of violence that made her step back instinctively.
"Don't let him what?" He dropped the pieces like confetti. "Don't let him send flowers to my fiancée thanking her for a dance that started this entire nightmare? Don't let him imply he's waiting for 'tempers to cool' so he can continue seducing what's mine?"
What's mine. Always what's mine.
"He's baiting you," she tried again. "He wants you to react. He wants—"
Her words cut off as Kael moved, his control finally snapping. He grabbed the crystal vase with both hands and hurled it against the marble wall with enough force to shatter it into a thousand glittering pieces.
The explosion was spectacular—crystal exploding like a bomb, water spraying across expensive surfaces, white rose petals scattering like snow across the carnage. The sound echoed through the penthouse, final and irrevocable.
Elara stood frozen, watching water and glass and flowers spread across the floor in a pattern that looked almost artistic in its destruction.
He just—he actually just—
"He's a dead man." Kael's voice cut through the ringing in her ears, soft and absolutely certain. "I gave him the warning when I burned his warehouse. I gave him the opportunity to retreat with his European operations and whatever dignity he had left."
He turned to face her, and what she saw in his expression made her blood run cold—not rage, exactly, but something worse. Calculation. The Ghost deciding exactly how someone would suffer before they died.
"But he sent flowers to you," Kael continued, his voice never rising above that deadly calm. "He acknowledged a connection between you. He offered you assistance—coded language for 'I can help you escape if you want.'"
Is that what the offer means? Is Lucien actually trying to help me or just using me as a weapon?
"He's trying to provoke you into making a mistake," she said desperately.
"No." Kael moved toward her with that predatory grace. "He's making the mistake. He thinks that because we had a disagreement last night, because you're clearly conflicted about this arrangement, that you might be vulnerable to outside influence."
A disagreement. He's calling my rejection and his love confession a 'disagreement.'
"I'm not—"
"I know you're not." His hand came up to frame her face, and despite everything, she didn't pull away. "But he doesn't know that. He sees an opportunity to hurt me by taking what I value most."
What I value most. He's saying I'm what he values most.
"So you're going to kill him," she said flatly.
"Eventually." The casual way he said it made her shiver. "First, I'm going to make sure he understands exactly what happens when someone touches what's mine. Really understands, in a way that involves significant suffering and very public consequences."
Public consequences. He's going to make an example of Lucien.
"This is insane," she whispered.
"This is my world." His thumb traced her cheekbone with devastating gentleness that contrasted sharply with the violence he was planning. "The world where sending flowers to another man's woman is a declaration of war. Where offering 'assistance' is code for 'let me be your next protector.'"
Another man's woman. Like I'm property being contested.
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are." His voice dropped to that velvet whisper. "You can fight it, deny it, run from it all you want. But the moment you signed that contract, the moment you let me put this ring on your finger, the moment you kissed me back—you became mine."
Became mine. Past tense. Like it's already done.
"And Lucien," he continued, releasing her face to pull out his phone, "made the catastrophically stupid decision to remind me that you're valuable enough to steal. That other men see what I see and want what I have."
He was already texting, his fingers moving across the screen with violent efficiency. "Viktor. Full tactical meeting in thirty minutes. I want options for eliminating Mercier—permanent options. Budget is unlimited."
Eliminating. He's not even pretending it's anything other than murder.
"Kael, please—"
"Please what?" He looked up from his phone, and the Ghost stared back at her with eyes like winter. "Please let the man who tried to kill us send you love letters and flowers? Please ignore the direct threat to our relationship? Please be weak enough that every other enemy I have thinks they can take you from me?"
This isn't about the flowers. This is about control. About power. About making sure everyone knows I belong to him.
"This is about pride," she said. "About ego. About you proving you're the biggest predator in the food chain."
"Yes." His agreement was immediate and unapologetic. "All of those things. Because in my world, the moment you show weakness, you're dead. The moment someone thinks they can take what's yours without consequences, you've lost everything."
He moved to the bar, pouring whiskey at eleven in the morning like it was normal. "Lucien's flowers weren't about you, Elara. They were about testing my control. Seeing if I'd react, seeing if the Ghost would show weakness for a woman."
And you're proving you won't. You're proving that anyone who even thinks about me becomes a dead man.
"So now what?" She heard herself ask. "You kill him and move on to the next threat? Someone else tests you and you kill them too? When does it end?"
His smile was beautiful and terrible. "It ends when everyone understands that touching you means death. When my enemies look at you and see not opportunity but suicide. When the entire underworld knows that the Ghost's one weakness is so thoroughly protected that it becomes a strength instead."
His one weakness. That's what I am. The vulnerability he's turning into a weapon.
"I never asked to be your weakness," she whispered.
"I know." His voice softened slightly. "But you are. And Lucien just reminded me that I can't afford to be gentle about protecting you."
He drained his whiskey and set down the glass with controlled precision. "Stay in the penthouse today. Security is being tripled. Viktor will coordinate, but you're not to go anywhere without my explicit approval."
Lockdown. I'm going back into lockdown because Lucien sent flowers.
"For how long?"
"Until he's dead."
The certainty in his voice made her stomach drop. "Kael—"
"He's a dead man, Elara." He moved toward his private elevator, already pulling up something on his phone. "The moment he decided to send those flowers, he signed his own death warrant. Now I'm just deciding how publicly he dies."
How publicly. Not whether. How publicly.
The elevator doors opened, but he paused before entering, turning back to look at her one last time.
"And for the record?" His voice dropped to that dangerous whisper. "Last night you said you're not Isabella. You're right. Because Isabella never would have inspired the kind of murderous rage I feel when I imagine someone trying to take you from me."
The doors closed on his words, leaving her alone in the penthouse with shattered crystal, scattered roses, and the terrible understanding that she'd just witnessed the Ghost declare war.
All because of flowers and a polite note from a man who'd made the fatal mistake of remembering she existed.