16.
She ran. Barefoot.
Her pale cotton dress clung to her legs as rain slicked the streets of Paris, turning the world into one long, blurred painting.
The city lights trembled in her tear-blurred vision. The wind screamed louder than she did.
Isolde had left the apartment behind left Lucien's heart, left the box, left the memory of Dante's masked face hovering inches above hers.
She ran until her lungs burned, until her feet bled from sharp gravel, until her only thought was get help, get help, get help.
By the time she burst through the heavy glass doors of the local police headquarters, her voice was shredded.
"Please," she gasped. "I-I need to speak to Detective Marc Renaud. It's urgent-he knows me-please!"
The receptionist, a young woman in uniform, looked up-blinking in confusion at the drenched, barefoot girl trembling before her.
"I need to see him," Isolde choked out. "He told me to come to him if anything anything-happened."
"Have a seat," the officer said, picking up the phone. "I'll call him."
Isolde backed against the wall, arms wrapped around herself.
Her dress was soaked and nearly see-through now, plastered to her skin like a second layer of vulnerability.
She could still feel Dante's hands not touching, but owning.
The echo of his voice buzzed in her ears like static "You'll beg me to stay when you learn what it feels like to have a god fall in love with your ruin."
She flinched as heavy boots clicked down the hall.
Marc Renaud appeared.
He looked the same tall, stoic, those tired storm-gray eyes fixed on her like she was both a lost child and a bomb waiting to detonate.
"Isolde," he said quietly. "What happened?"
She burst into sobs, throwing herself into his arms.
"He was there-Dante-he broke in-he pinned me down-he gave me a heart, Marc-Lucien's heart-he said he killed him because he asked me on a date!"
Marc's jaw clenched. His arms closed gently around her. "You did the right thing coming here. You're safe now."
But something in his voice... faltered. Something small. Off.
He pulled away. "I'll take your statement personally. Follow me."
She didn't hesitate.
Until they passed the security room.
And she saw it.
A red rose. Painted-tiny, discreet-on the corner of the CCTV monitor. The exact same rose that had been carved into the back of her choker.
She froze. Marc noticed. He followed her gaze.
"Something wrong?" he asked. She didn't answer. Didn't breathe. And then, it clicked.
He knew about the choker.
She had never shown it to him. Never told him about the rose detail. Her stomach twisted.
Her hands went cold.
"I... I need to use the bathroom," she whispered.
He stared at her for a beat too long.
Then nodded. "Down the hall. First left."
She turned and walked-not too fast. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
As soon as she rounded the corner, she broke into a sprint.
Ten minutes later, Isolde burst out into the back alley of the precinct.
She collapsed beside a dumpster, gasping for breath, her soaked dress heavy around her thighs. Her mind spun.
They were in on it.
Or at least Marc was. He knew.
There was nowhere left to go.
And that was when she saw it A package.
Resting neatly beside the dumpster. Wrapped in gold this time. Tied with white silk.No blood. No violence.
Just... an envelope.
Hands trembling, she opened it.
Inside: a letter.
Handwritten in black ink. Every line deliberate. Every stroke beautiful.
"My dove,
I warned you the world belonged to me.
You went to them but they already wear my name in blood beneath their collars.
Renaud was mine before he was theirs. The rose you saw? That was his seal of loyalty. You looked into the eyes of your savior and didn't see the leash.
There's nowhere left to run. You belong to me.
You can fight it for days, maybe weeks. But eventually... you'll realize I am not the villain in your story.
I am the one who kept your aunt from selling you to strangers.
I am the one who silenced the boy who thought he had a right to your softness. I am the one who knows the sound of your weeping and still calls it music.
I will protect you. Obsessively. Violently. Forever.
Unless, of course, you'd rather I start carving new hearts.
Tick tock, dove. Choose your fate.
Inside the box is a dress. Midnight. Velvet. A slit you'll hate. Heels that will hurt.
Put them on. Be ready at midnight.
Dante"
Her hands shook violently. She opened the box.
Inside: the dress. The heels. Even a matching velvet ribbon for her braid.
Beneath them, one last note "Be mine willingly, or I will take you screaming. Either way, mon amour, you're mine."
She clutched the box to her chest and began to cry.
But something inside her raw and confused-didn't cry out in fear anymore.
It ached.
It ached with something far worse.
Recognition.