CHAPTER SIX
377 Words
The flowers arrived before sunrise.
A bouquet of deep crimson roses sat outside Leah’s door, wrapped in black paper and tied with silver ribbon. No card. No explanation.
She told herself they could have come from anyone. A client. A friend. Someone who’d forgotten to sign their name. But when she lifted them, a slip of paper fell out from between the stems.
Two words.
Wear red.
That evening, she didn’t put on red. She told herself she wouldn’t give him that power. But when she opened her closet, her hand moved on its own, brushing past every other hanger until it found the silk dress she’d never worn outside her apartment.
The restaurant was louder than the place they’d gone before—clinking glasses, murmured laughter—but when Henry walked in, the noise seemed to fold in around him. His eyes scanned the room once before finding her.
“You wore it,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her.
“You left no name. No address.”
“I didn’t have to.” He poured her wine without asking. “You would’ve known.”
She hated that he was right.
Halfway through the meal, he leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Do you ever wonder why people keep their darkest moments hidden? Is it shame? Or fear someone might… use them?”
The stem of her glass slipped slightly in her hand. “Depends on the person.”
His mouth curved—almost a smile, almost a warning. “Depends on the one who finds out.”
When the check came, there was no check. They left through a side door into the alley, where the air was cold and damp. He stood close enough that the heat from his body soaked through the thin silk of her dress.
“Some truths,” he murmured, “should be given, not taken. You understand that, don’t you?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but he was already walking away, the echo of his footsteps fading into the night.
At home, she found another envelope on her table. No postage. No address. Inside was a single photograph—herself, taken from behind, the day before.
The dress she’d worn then wasn’t red.
- Writer
