Episode2-The devil sends roses
1039 Words
Rain fell like broken glass when Elena woke. Her satin sheets clung to her like a second skin, damp from a night of fractured sleep. Dreams—or maybe nightmares—still whispered in the corners of her mind: smoke curling through chandeliers, the echo of his voice saying her name without saying it at all.
Adrian.
The way he’d spoken it—like he owned it. Like he owned her.
She shoved the thought away and swung her legs off the bed. The floor was ice beneath her bare feet, a brutal reminder that reality was colder than fantasy. And reality demanded damage control.
The fire. The panic. The whispers that would already be bleeding through Venice like ink in water.
She reached for her phone, fingers trembling before she even unlocked the screen.
Fifty-seven missed calls.
Twenty-three new messages.
And one that froze her blood.
Unknown Number: You forgot to say thank you.
Her throat tightened. Another vibration. A second message.
Red looks good on you. Wear it again tonight.
Her breath stuttered out in a shaky laugh that wasn’t really laughter. Who the hell was he to send her… this? A command disguised as flirtation.
And yet… she didn’t delete the message.
“God, Elena, pull yourself together.” She set the phone down, forcing herself toward the wardrobe. Crisp white blouse, black slacks—armor for a day she refused to let spiral.
By the time she reached the kitchen, her father was already there, hunched over the marble island, coffee black as his mood. His eyes—once sharp with ambition—now dulled with desperation.
“Elena.” His voice was smoke and gravel. “We’re ruined.”
Her grip tightened on the back of the chair. “We’re not. I’ll fix this.”
He laughed bitterly. “How? Investors are already pulling out. Last night’s disaster is all over the news. They’re calling it a terrorist attack. Do you know what that means for us?”
She knew. It meant bankruptcy. Scandal. Her family’s empire turning to ash while the world watched with champagne smiles.
“I’ll find a way,” she said again, even though the words tasted like lies.
And then the doorbell rang.
Her father froze. “Who the hell—”
“I’ll get it.”
Elena crossed the foyer, her heels whispering on marble. The bell chimed again—low, insistent, like a pulse.
She opened the door—and her breath hitched.
A box. Black. Sleek. Sitting like sin on the doorstep.
She glanced left, right. Empty street. No shadow lurking. No sound but the steady hiss of rain.
Her fingers trembled as she lifted the lid.
Inside—blood-red roses. Dozens of them, dark as spilled wine, their petals dripping with something that wasn’t water. Something thicker.
And nestled among them—a single white card.
Her eyes skimmed the ink, her pulse detonating in her veins.
You didn’t run fast enough.
—A.
“Elena?” Her father’s voice sliced through the haze.
She slammed the lid shut, forcing her breath steady. “Nothing. Just… flowers.”
But inside, panic was clawing through her ribs. Flowers didn’t bleed.
Later that night.
The city glittered under a bruised sky, and Elena stood in front of the mirror, staring at a reflection she barely recognized. Red dress. Again. Because some part of her—a part she hated—couldn’t say no to the challenge in his message.
She told herself it was strategy. That if he wanted her at this masquerade tonight, she’d play along. Maybe find out who he really was. Maybe end this before it began.
But deep down, she knew the truth. She wasn’t going to end it.
She was going to set herself on fire and pray he didn’t watch her burn.
The venue was nothing like last night’s opulence. This was darker. Older. A villa clinging to the edge of the Grand Canal like a secret that refused to drown. Inside, the air hummed with danger—no chandeliers, no masks, just men in suits that smelled like money and blood.
Elena walked in, and every head turned. But she only searched for one.
She didn’t have to look far.
Adrian was waiting—leaning against a marble pillar like he’d carved it himself, dressed in black that made the night jealous. His eyes found hers immediately, and something inside her snapped.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched her walk to him like he’d commanded her steps before she took them.
“You came.” His voice was a low blade, sliding under her skin.
She tilted her chin. “To tell you to stay the hell out of my life.”
He smiled—slow, cruel, beautiful. “Liar.”
“Excuse me?”
“You came because you’re curious. Because when the fire rained last night, you weren’t afraid of me. You wanted to know how close I’d let you burn.”
Her pulse betrayed her. She hated that he saw it.
“Tell me what you want,” she snapped.
He stepped closer, shadows clinging to him like worshipers. “What I want?” His hand brushed a stray curl from her face, slow enough to feel like a sin. “Everything you’re not ready to give.”
She swallowed hard. “And if I say no?”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Then I take it anyway.”
Before she could breathe—before she could think—a gunshot ripped through the villa.
Screams erupted. Chaos again. Men drew weapons, shouting in languages that tasted like smoke and steel. Adrian’s hand clamped around her waist, dragging her behind a column as bullets shredded marble where her head had been.
“Stay down!” he barked.
“What the hell is happening?!”
“War.” His gaze locked on hers—black fire, unflinching. “And now you’re part of it.”
TWEETS BLAZING ACROSS SCREENS:
@VenetianWhispers: Another night, another body count. Who’s the girl in red again? Someone tell me why she’s always at the center.
@ShadowBroker: Word is, the King of Ashes has a new obsession. Pray for her soul.
- Writer
