Queen of Thorns

Istanbul never truly sleeps. Even at two in the morning, there’s life outside my window — muffled car horns, footsteps that come and go, the wind dragging secrets through narrow alleys. But inside my flower shop, everything is still. I’m Zara Imran — and tonight, I’m tying the last crimson rose into a midnight bouquet. Petals smooth as silk brush against my fingertips. The smell of roses is heavy, mixed with something darker: the perfume of a customer who visited earlier. She’d worn oud so strong it clung to the air, and when she left, I noticed a smear of blood on the counter. Not fresh, but not old either. My shop, Zara’s Roses, isn’t just a florist. It’s a message house. People come to me when they want to say something dangerous without speaking a word. And tonight, someone left me a message. But before I can think, the door creaks open. It shouldn’t. I locked it an hour ago. A man steps inside, wearing darkness like a second skin. Black tailored suit. White shirt, crisp but stained faintly at the collar with something that could be blood. His shoes barely make a sound on the tiled floor. And in his hand, a single crimson rose. For a second, the silence stretches, heavy and electric. Then his voice cuts through it — warm, deep, and commanding. “I need flowers.” I should be afraid. I’m not. Instead, I lift my chin and stare him down. “I think you’re in the wrong place. People buy flowers here, not threats.” A smirk curves his mouth, but it never reaches his eyes. “Zara Imran,” he says, like he’s testing how my name tastes. Hearing my name on his tongue sends a small chill down my spine. “Who are you?” I ask. “Roman El-Ameer.” The name hits me like cold water. Even in Istanbul’s underworld, the El-Ameer family is legend. Brothers who rose from shadows to rule everything illegal that breathes. And Roman? The eldest. The coldest. The one whose enemies vanish, leaving only whispers behind. I meet his gaze anyway. My father taught me to never drop my eyes, even before he died. “I have a job for you,” he says. “I sell flowers, not bodies,” I shoot back. His smirk fades. “This isn’t a request.” He tosses a black folder onto the counter. It lands next to the rose. I don’t move at first. Then curiosity wins. I open it. Photos spill out: a man’s corpse, face bloodied beyond recognition, but around his neck… a wreath. Roses, lilies, and a single black tulip in the center. My design. It was supposed to be delivered to an old client, a businessman who paid extra to stay anonymous. “Your flowers sent a message,” Roman says softly. “A message only someone like me could understand.” My heartbeat trips. “I design arrangements. What the client asks for, I deliver.” “And what did this client ask for?” “A farewell. That’s all.” Roman steps closer, and for the first time, I see the cold calculation in his eyes. The eyes of a man who weighs life and death like money on a scale. “That ‘farewell’ killed a man,” he says. “Now, you work for me.” “And if I refuse?” “Then your next bouquet will be on your grave.” His words should terrify me. They do, a little. But under the fear, there’s something darker — the stubborn fire that’s kept me alive this long. “No man touches me without permission,” I say. “Not you. Not your brothers. Not anyone.” He studies me for a heartbeat that feels like an hour. “Deal,” he says. Outside, headlights pierce the dark. Black SUVs. Men step out — silent, trained, and armed. Waiting for Roman’s command. Inside, it’s just the two of us. Silence crackles between us. Roman places the rose on the counter, its petals stained with someone else’s blood. “Your work starts now,” he says. “Tomorrow morning, come to this address.” He slides a card toward me. The address isn’t a shop. It’s a mansion outside the city, famous for its high walls and hidden guards. “And if I don’t?” I ask. “You will,” he says simply. His certainty angers me almost as much as it frightens me. “What do you want from me, Roman?” “Your hands,” he says. “Your eyes. Your mind.” “And my loyalty?” “That will come,” he says. “Fear makes people loyal.” “Not me,” I whisper. For the first time, a flicker of surprise crosses his face. Then it’s gone. “We’ll see, Zara,” he says, turning away. “We always do.” The door closes behind him, leaving the shop colder than before. I stand there for a long time, staring at the blood-stained rose. My hands tremble. I force them to stop. Fear is natural. Weakness is a choice. I clean the counter, burn the photos, and lock the folder in a hidden drawer. Outside, the city keeps breathing. Life goes on. But for me? Something old inside me has woken up. Something that smells like iron and smoke. The girl who buried secrets behind petals is gone. What remains is a woman with thorns sharper than any knife. And Roman El-Ameer? He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s playing with fire.