Liana’s POV
The kitchen light buzzed overhead like a dying insect.
I stood frozen, phone in one hand, the black box of lilies still open on the counter. Their scent had turned revolting, the sweetness gone rotten in the small space.
The photo stared up from the screen: me at dawn, rain in my hair, coat clutched like a shield, walking away from the hotel.
Someone had followed me.
Someone had waited across the street with a camera.
It was too grainy but that was me.
My thumb trembled over the reply button.
The second message from the same unknown number sat right above the photo.
My heart slammed so hard I felt it in my throat. I glanced at the window, curtains drawn, but the gap between them showed only wet streetlight and rain-streaked glass. No silhouette. No movement.
Still,
