Damian's POV
I held the rose by its stem the entire way downstairs.
I didn't crush it. Didn't throw it. I carried it with the careful deliberateness of a man who understood that the moment he let his anger find a physical expression was the moment he lost the upper hand — and the upper hand was the only thing standing between Lena and whatever Victor was actually planning.
I set it on my desk and stood over it.
A white rose.
Victor had always had a theatrical streak — it was one of the things that made him dangerous in a way that straightforward violence wasn't. He thought in symbols. Communicated in gestures that left no fingerprints. A flower through a window was not a threat you could respond to directly. It was designed specifically to produce the feeling of helplessness — to make
