Guns and Roses

Loved me in petals

I was leaning back on the leather couch in the penthouse suite of my Midtown property, one hand swirling the amber liquid in my glass, the other draped lazily over the armrest. The skyline stretched out like a glittering sea behind me, but I wasn’t really looking at it.

I was thinking about her.

Again.

Malik stood across the room, arms crossed, eyes shifting between amusement and mild irritation.

“She threw the damn card in the trash,” he said, trying to sound serious. “Didn’t even hesitate. Straight into the bin like it was a parking ticket.”

I let out a low, amused laugh. Not the forced kind—the real kind. The kind that bubbled up from a place even I didn’t visit too often.

Of course she did.

Of course she did.

“That’s my girl,” I muttered under my breath, a crooked grin playing on my lips. “Still got fire in her blood.”

Malik arched an eyebrow. “You sent her roses and lilies and poured your emo heart out in a note, and you’re laughing like you won.”

“I did win,” I replied, still grinning. “She reacted exactly how I knew she would. She read it, didn’t she?”

He didn’t answer.

I took another sip. “Yeah. She read it. I can feel it.”

Because I knew her. Always had.

Genevieve Taylor never reacted gently to pain. She didn’t sigh and move on. She didn’t cry herself to sleep and listen to sad love songs. No—she fought. She burned. That was her language. Fury, silence, stone-faced glares. That’s how she grieved. That’s how she processed love.

And hate.

And confusion.

“I sent her those flowers ‘cause I wanted her to remember I’m still watching,” I said, leaning forward and setting the glass down on the table. “Not stalking. Just…present. Always have been.”

Malik scoffed. “Romantic. Creepy, but romantic.”

“She don’t need romance,” I said, standing up and walking toward the window. “She needs someone who gets her. Someone who won’t flinch when she bites. Someone who’ll bite back if she starts swinging.”

The city below was buzzing. But all I could see in my mind’s eye was her—Genevieve in her little suit skirt, trench coat flaring behind her like a cape, lips twisted into a permanent scowl because I ruined the one soft part of her heart.

And even still, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

“She’s still got that walk, huh?” I asked without turning around. “That little sway in her hips when she’s pissed.”

Malik chuckled reluctantly. “Yeah. She’s got that ‘I’ll arrest your ass and make you fall in love with me while doing it’ energy.”

I smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

“She already did. Years ago.”

And now?

Now it was my turn to make.

————————————————————————

I hadn’t even made it two steps into the precinct when I saw them again—bright, soft, and smug as hell—sitting pretty on my desk like they belonged there. Another goddamn bouquet.

This one was even worse than the last: tulips and peonies, arranged with so much effort I almost felt bad for hating them.

Almost.

The guys from narcotics were already watching, grinning like schoolboys at recess. Briars leaned over the cubicle wall, chewing gum with an obnoxious smirk on his face.

“Back at it again, huh, Taylor?” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Whoever this dude is, he’s got it bad. You should give the poor guy a shot. He’s got taste.”

“Oh, shut up, Briars,” I muttered, tossing my bag on the desk and yanking the card from between the petals. It was sealed, fancy gold script again. Same as yesterday.

Same man.

Same haunting presence.

I didn’t want to read it. I really didn’t.

But I did.

“You loved me in petals and left me in thorns.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

I blinked. Read it again. And again. Each time it made less sense and more sense at the same time, like some poetic fever dream crawling under my skin and coiling in my throat.

You loved me in petals…

…left me in thorns.

I could still see his face—Saint Laurent Leo. The boy I once gave my heart to, all naive and soft and open like a damn fool. The boy who let it slip through his fingers like sand while I bled quietly behind closed doors.

That note? It wasn’t an apology.

It was a trigger.

Without thinking, I tore the card in two. Then again. And again. Until all that was left were little white fragments in my fists. I walked it straight to the trash can and shoved it deep inside, slamming the lid shut like it would seal the memory away with it.

“Tough crowd,” Briars teased behind me.

I ignored him.

Because I wasn’t going to give Saint Laurent the satisfaction. I wasn’t going to stand there and let poetry and pretty flowers take me back to seventeen—to a time when I loved a storm and thought I could tame it.

Not today.

Not ever again.

But still…

That damn note echoed.

You loved me in petals…

…left me in thorns.

As if I hadn’t been the one left bleeding in the first place.