Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Igor
White dahlias. Again.
I stared at the fresh bouquet of white dahlias on my office desk—the third time this week. Every morning when I pushed open the studio door, they appeared like ghosts, dewdrops still clinging to the petals, fresh as if they'd just been plucked from a garden.
"Oh my God, Elena!" Anna burst in with her coffee, shrieking with excitement at the sight of the flowers. "Again! This mystery admirer is so romantic!"
"This isn't romantic. It's creepy." I frowned, examining the bouquet. Still no card, no signature, nothing. Just sitting there in silent declaration.
"Creepy? Come on, these are white dahlias—your favorite flowers, right?" Anna set down her coffee and leaned in to smell them. "This shows he's put thought into learning what you like."
My frown deepened. Yes, I loved white dahlias because they were unique. But I rarely mentioned this to anyone. In Italy, maybe only Anna and Marco knew. This wasn't some common preference—not roses, not lilies, but dahlias. Who would know?
"Look, every single bloom is perfect." Anna touched the petals gently. "Whoever's sending these has real taste."
"Taste?" I laughed coldly. "Breaking into someone's studio is tasteful?"
"Maybe he has a key?" Anna winked. "Or... maybe he's someone you forgot? Someone you once gave hope to?"
I didn't answer because I couldn't think of anyone.
"Could it be Marco?" Anna kept speculating. "He pursued you for so long. Maybe he's trying this mysterious approach to get your attention again? You know how men love playing mysterious."
"Marco's not like that." I shook my head, moving the bouquet to the windowsill. "If Marco sent flowers, he'd deliver them himself."
"Then it's a new admirer!" Anna laughed, radiating the kind of romantic fantasy only young people possessed. "Elena, you're so charming. First, there's Marco—now you've got a mystery man. Maybe it's a client who saw you working so intently and got captivated."
"Anna, don't you think this is strange?" My voice came out tighter than expected. "Someone entered my studio without my knowledge and knows my favorite flowers."
Anna's excitement suddenly stopped. She looked at the flowers, then at me, her smile slowly fading. "When you put it that way... it is kind of scary. I mean, how did he get in? The door was definitely locked."
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself.
Anna bit her lip and walked over to check the door lock, her face darkening. "No signs of forced entry."
We fell silent for several seconds. The studio became eerily quiet, with only occasional car sounds from the street. Seeing my tense expression, Anna took a deep breath and tried to lighten the mood.
She cleared her throat and walked over to pat my shoulder gently. "Maybe... maybe he's not a bad person? Just too shy to appear? Look, he sent flowers, not something terrifying. Bad people probably wouldn't be this thoughtful, right?"
"Who knows." I forced a smile, not wanting to worry her.
Then I sat down and opened my computer, trying to dive into work. "Maybe you're right. At least he sent flowers."
But my fingers hovered over the keyboard, unable to type anything.
"Elena." Anna crouched beside me, looking up at me.
"The other staff and I are all here. If anything feels wrong, we'll call the police immediately, okay?
You're not alone. And look, we're on the second floor, facing the main street.
Even if something happened, you could shout and everyone in the café downstairs would hear. "
Looking at her earnest expression, warmth flooded my heart. "Thank you, Anna."
"We're partners." She stood up, regaining some energy. "But seriously, maybe this really is just some admirer's way of showing affection? Italian men, you know—they always love these romantic gestures. Maybe in a few days he'll show up properly, and you'll discover he's actually a nice guy."
"Maybe." I gave a half-hearted response.
Anna stuck out her tongue.
"Go work." I waved my hand, trying to sound normal. "Those design drafts for the orders have to be finished today. Milan's been calling."
"Yes, boss." Anna turned and left.
After the door closed, I leaned back in my chair and let out a long breath.
The studio fell quiet again. I stared at the computer screen but couldn't focus on anything. All morning, I couldn't concentrate. My gaze kept drifting to those flowers on the windowsill—blooming quietly, their pure white petals almost transparent in the sunlight, heartbreakingly beautiful.
Who would know I loved white dahlias? Who could slip into a locked studio without a trace?
By the time I got home, it was completely dark.
I opened the apartment door. Stella had already bathed and was sitting on the sofa in her favorite pink pajamas, with babysitter Mary watching cartoons with her. Seeing me come in, she immediately jumped off the sofa and ran to me barefoot, throwing herself into my arms.
"Mommy! You're home!"
"Baby." I picked her up and kissed her cheek hard. The exhaustion from a full day of work vanished in that moment.
Mary smiled and stood up to gather her things. "She was very good today. After dinner, she even put away her toys herself. I'll head out now, Elena."
"Thank you, Mary. Be safe."
After the babysitter left, Stella and I cuddled on the sofa and chatted.
She excitedly told me about what happened at kindergarten—how teacher Angela had played new games with the children, and how a little boy named Luca had given her candy.
Listening to her chatter, the gloom in my heart seemed to lift a little.
The flowers, that inexplicable unease—it all got pushed to the back of my mind by my daughter's innocent voice.
At nine-thirty, I finally got Stella to sleep.
This little one was especially excited tonight, insisting I tell three stories before she'd sleep. She lay in bed, her bright blue eyes sparkling at me, long lashes fluttering like little fans. Golden curls spread across the pillow like silk. Oh, she really was my angel baby.
"Mommy, tell me one more." She pulled my hand, using that irresistible wheedling tone.
"No way, little liar." I gently tapped her nose. "You've said 'last one' three times now."
"But I don't want to sleep yet." She pouted, though her eyelids were already fighting.
"Is that so?" I leaned down to kiss her forehead. "Then why are your eyes closing?"
"They're not..." she mumbled, her little hand still gripping my finger tightly. "Mommy, you'll stay with me always, right?"
"Of course," I said softly, a tender ache filling my heart. "Mommy will always be with you."
"So you won't leave me? Like the princess's mommy in the fairy tales..."
"Never." I squeezed her little hand. "Mommy will never leave you, Stella. Never."
She finally closed her eyes contentedly, her breathing gradually becoming steady. I quietly closed her door and dragged my tired body toward the bedroom.
I took a shower and changed into pajamas. Then I opened my laptop. In the chat app, M's avatar was lit up, so I started chatting with her.
Me: [Just finished putting the kid to bed. I'm exhausted.]
M: [lol, being a mom isn't easy. What's wrong? I can tell from your typing speed that something's bothering you.]
I hesitated. M could always read me, even through a screen.
Me: [Something weird's been happening lately.]
M: [Tell me. Weirder than that difficult client last time?]
I took a deep breath and typed.
Me: [My studio's been getting white dahlias three days in a row this week. Every morning there's a fresh bouquet, like they were just picked. But no signature, no idea who's sending them. Doors and windows are locked tight, no one in the hallway security footage, but the flowers just appear.]
M was silent for a few seconds.
M: [Oh... so you've got a stalker pursuing you? And he's skilled—he can slip past building security and into your studio without being seen.]
Me: [Yes. It's really creepy. I feel like... like I'm being watched. If he keeps sending flowers, I'm calling the police.]
M sent a thinking emoji, then a long message.
M: [Could it be your ex who found you? That psycho rich guy is your stalker?
You know how these wealthy psychos operate.
They start with anonymous flowers to test your reaction, observe your routine, gather information.
Then they slowly reveal themselves, trying to win you back in what they think is a romantic way.
God, I've seen too many cases like this. ]
My heart skipped a beat, my chest suddenly tight. Igor did know I loved white dahlias.
But it was impossible.
Me: [Impossible. It's been five years. He's long married that woman and had kids.]
After typing this, my throat tightened. Yes, five years. Enough time for a man to marry, have children, build a new family. Enough time to forget me completely.
M: [Are you sure? Maybe he's been looking for you? Maybe that wedding never happened?]
Me: [If he wanted to find me, he would have already.]
I typed quickly, my fingers practically slamming the keyboard.
Me: [He has all the resources and connections. Five years without even a shadow—that's proof enough he never cared about me.]
Only after finishing the last word did I realize my hands were shaking.
M was silent longer than usual.
M: [Sorry, I shouldn't have reopened old wounds.]
Me: [It's fine. I'm just being too sensitive.]
M: [Think of it this way—maybe it really is just some client with a crush?
You've made several dahlia pendant designs.
He could guess your preferences from that.
Plus Italian men are generally romantic.
Maybe someone secretly likes you—maybe he's a magician who can teleport flowers?
Think about the male clients you've dealt with.
Anyone who showed special interest in you? And knows magic?]