Petals and Pavements
ALISA'S POV
The scent of lilies and damp earth usually soothed me, but tonight, it just felt heavy. My back ached from standing at the potting bench for eight hours. All I wanted was to peel off my apron and crawl into bed.
"And then, Alisa—I swear—he tells me he’s a 'crypto consultant.' Next thing I know, we’re three martinis in and I’m waking up in a penthouse that costs more than my life," Sarah chattered, leaning against the counter while she buffed her nails.
I clipped the thorns off a stray rose, barely looking up. "Sarah, you said the last one was a 'soulmate.' This one sounds like a temporary tax bracket."
She laughed, unbothered. "Maybe. But the sheets were Egyptian cotton, babe. You should try it sometime instead of flirting with your ferns."
"The ferns don't ghost me," I muttered. I hung my apron on the hook as the clock finally hit 8:00 PM. "Goodnight, Sarah. Don't get kidnapped by a consultant on your way home."
The night air was crisp as I stepped onto the sidewalk. I started the three-block walk to the subway, my mind already on the leftover pasta in my fridge. I didn't even have to look over my shoulder when I heard the low, expensive hum of an engine crawling beside me.
The black SUV. Again.
"Hello, my favorite florist," a smooth, arrogant voice drifted through the open passenger window.
I didn't stop. I didn't even glance his way. "I’m closed, Tristan. If you want more 'apology orchids' for your girlfriend, come back tomorrow."
"She isn't my girlfriend anymore," he said, keeping the car perfectly in pace with my steps. "And you know I only buy them as an excuse to see you roll your eyes at me."
I felt a flash of disgust. He was handsome and wealthy, used to getting whatever he wanted. To him, I was probably just a fun challenge—a "side-chick" project to pass the time.
"When are you ever going to give up?" I asked, finally stopping to give him a weary stare.
Tristan leaned across the seat. He looked genuinely concerned, which was the most annoying part. "I'll never give up on you, my queen. You look exhausted. It’s late, and the neighborhood is getting rowdy. Just let me give you a ride. No strings."
I looked at the dark subway entrance, then back at the plush leather seats of his car. My feet were throbbing. I hated that I was actually considering it. I hated that for a split second, the "dickhead" was winning.
I sighed and moved toward the door. "Fine. You win. But if you start talking about money, I’m jumping out while we're moving—"
CRACK.
The sound was a lightning bolt right next to my ear.
The windshield of the SUV didn't just break; it vanished into a million shimmering shards. I watched, paralyzed, as a dark spray painted the ivory leather of the headrest.
"Tristan? Tristan!" I screamed.
He didn't respond. He... he was dead. I yanked the door open, my heart falling into my stomach. The bullet had hit him directly in the heart. Blood was gushing out, soaking into his expensive suit. My hands were shaking uncontrollably now.
From the corner of my eye, I saw someone run right past the car, pausing for a split second as if to check if the deed was done. That had to be the shooter.
Everything was happening all at once. Chaos broke out as people screamed and ran for cover, but fury—hot and blinding—surged through me. I should have run, but all I could think was that someone needed to pay for this. Someone needed to suffer for turning my walk home into a slaughterhouse.
I bolted.
I was faster than he expected. As he reached for the door of a getaway car, I lunged, my fingers locking around his ankle. He hit the pavement with a heavy thud.
"What the f**k! Let go!" he screamed, his voice high and panicked.
"Why did you kill him? Who are you!" I shrieked. I didn't care about the blood on my hands or the tears in my eyes. I scrambled on top of him, pinning his arms and ripping the black mask off his face.
The world stopped spinning. The air left my lungs.
"Max?" I whispered.
My younger brother stared up at me, his face ghostly white. His eyes were filled with a horror that mirrored my own.
"Alisa?" he wheezed. "What... what are you doing in that car?"
The roar of another engine cut through my shock. A matte-black car drifted into the street, blocking our path. The door opened, and a man stepped out—tall, imposing, and radiating a cold power that made Max’s shooters look like children.
