The rose sat in a chipped glass on Isabella's bedside table, its petals still impossibly fresh despite the long day. She had tried to throw it away twice. The first time, she'd carried it to the trash bin, only to find herself hesitating, fingers unwilling to release it. The second time, she had walked it to the alley behind the café, only for Marta to tease her: "Careful, Bella, he might have put a tracker in that thing."
So here it was, mocking her in the silence of her small apartment, glowing red in the pale light of the moon.
Her mother coughed from the next room. Isabella snapped out of her daze and went to check on her. Elena Cruz lay in bed, thin and pale, her body shrunken by illness but her eyes still sharp.
"You're late," Elena rasped, her voice heavy with sleep. "Were you working again?"
"Always." Isabella brushed hair from her mother's forehead and smiled faintly. "Don't worry, Mama. I'm fine."
"You work too hard." Elena studied her for a long moment. "Something happened today."
Isabella froze. Her mother always seemed to know.
"Nothing," Isabella lied quickly. "Just the usual customers."
But Elena's gaze slid toward the living room, where the faint shadow of the rose still lingered. Her lips tightened, as if she recognized a danger Isabella couldn't yet name.
The next evening, as Isabella locked up the café, a chill ran through her. The street was too quiet. Too still.
She wrapped her coat tighter around herself and started down the block. Her apartment was only a ten-minute walk away, but tonight, every step felt heavy.
A shadow moved.
Her breath hitched.
A man stepped out from the alley tall, broad-shouldered, his jacket shifting just enough for her to glimpse the outline of a gun. His eyes scanned her, impassive, before he spoke into a small earpiece.
"She's leaving now."
Isabella froze. "E-excuse me?"
The man didn't respond. He simply tilted his head, as if acknowledging her, then stepped back into the alley.
Her heart pounded as she hurried down the street, nearly breaking into a run.
By the time she reached her apartment, her hands were trembling so badly she almost dropped her keys. She forced herself to breathe, to calm down. Maybe she had imagined it. Maybe
A knock at the door.
She jumped, clutching her chest.
"Bella?" Marta's voice called.
Relief surged through her. She opened the door quickly.
Marta stepped inside, tossing her jacket onto the couch. "Why do you look like you've seen a ghost?"
"I think…" Isabella swallowed hard. "I think I was followed."
Marta frowned. "By who?"
"I don't know. Some man. He… he had a gun, Marta."
Her friend went quiet, and then her gaze flicked toward the rose still on the table. "It's him. I knew it. That guy from the café."
"That doesn't make sense," Isabella whispered. "Why me?"
Marta sighed, pulling Isabella into a hug. "Because men like that don't need a reason."
Isabella wanted to believe she was exaggerating, but deep down, she knew the truth. The stranger hadn't just noticed her. He had chosen her.
And he wasn't the kind of man anyone could hide from.