6. Roses Are Red—Blood Is Too #2
“He won the lottery. A lot of money, I hear.” The guard’s grin was wicked, forced. “Lucky him.”
“Very lucky.” My stomach tightened. There was no luck involved. Julian had paid him off. The question was—who else was being replaced?
“My name is Rafael,” the guard said smoothly. “It is my pleasure to protect you.”
Protect me? The guards were there to protect the lab, not me. His words felt like a trap disguised as courtesy.
I had no reply. Clutching my laptop case tighter, I marched past him into the sterile halls.
The air smelled sharply of disinfectant, layered with the faint scent of the wax our histologists used to prepare samples.
The smell was clinical, familiar, settling in a way—but it did nothing to counter the unease creeping up my spine.
I swiped my badge, then punched in the code to open the door to the lab and swung it wide, forgetting I was about to become a spectacle.
Every technician, doctor, and histologist turned my way and gaped at me.
The fluorescent lights glared off stainless steel workbenches, microscopes lined in neat rows, and racks of test tubes glowing faintly under their labels.
Machines hummed steadily in the background, their rhythm a reminder of the work that never stopped.
I paused and cleared my throat. “Good morning,” I stuttered as if I were a student late to one of my labs and not their boss.
Whispered “good mornings” escaped their mouths while they continued to stare. White coats shifted uneasily; their silence louder than any greeting.
The attention made my skin crawl. But I tried to pretend it was just another day at the lab. “I’ll be doing rounds after I respond to emails to see if anyone has questions or unusual samples or specimens they need me to look at.”
I hustled back to my office, regretting not having gone to Paris today. Was that offer still on the table?
I unlocked my office door and took a deep breath once I was safely on the other side.
I took a moment to look at all the framed degrees hanging on the wall.
They reminded me that I was smart and a fighter.
And that I had to fight smarter. Which meant the next time I was forced into marrying someone, I would at least pretend to go on a honeymoon.
As I settled in at my desk, familiar clutter greeted me: stacks of journals, a half-empty coffee mug, and the hum of my laptop as I powered it on. I hid my mother’s computer in a locked drawer in my desk under some papers. As soon as it was secure, I dove into my inbox.
There were more emails than usual, since I had taken a couple of days off before my wedding to mentally prepare for my descent into hell.
Not that I hadn’t already been living in it for the last several months, knowing exactly who Julian was and what his plan entailed.
But marrying him had thrust me one circle lower.
I typed and replied, drafted and redrafted, losing myself in the rhythm of correspondence. Two hours vanished without my noticing. It wasn’t until there was a knock on my door that I realized what time it was. And that I needed to do my rounds.
Before I could say Come in, Cyrus entered, apparently having invited himself, dressed in a tailored suit and tie, looking more like a model than a doctor. Oddly, he was carrying a bouquet of red roses wrapped prettily in pink tissue paper. The blooms were lush and too perfect.
“Um . . . hello. Can I help you?”
The room felt like it had become ten degrees colder with him standing there.
“These just arrived for you.” His brows came together as he carefully observed me.
It was weird that Cyrus would bring them to me. CMOs didn’t usually dabble in floral delivery.
“Who are they from?”
His cold eyes said, Who do you think?
Right. I was married. Sadly, only one other man had ever sent me flowers—James Wilson.
We were in med school together. His note said something to the effect that if he hadn’t promised himself not to get involved with anyone during med school, he would have asked me out.
He thought I was pretty and kind. If only James knew I was morphing into Buffy the Vampire Slayer, he probably wouldn’t think I was all that nice anymore.
“Of course; they’re from Julian.” I tried to recover, but the words came out brittle. “How sweet of him,” I added, managing not to gag.
Cyrus marched forward, his polished shoes clicking against the tile, and thrust the bouquet into my hands. The roses’ petals were velvety, the pink tissue paper crinkling like a mockery of tenderness.
I lifted them to my nose, inhaling their heavy fragrance, pretending I adored the gesture. “Thank you.”
“We need to meet to discuss the external audit results,” Cyrus barked, his tone clipped.
“I have some time in my schedule tomorrow,” I replied, just as short as him.
“I’ll send you an invite.” He spun on his heel and slammed the door harder than necessary. The sound reverberated through the office, a punctuation mark to his disdain. He detested me as much as I despised him.
Still rattled, I plucked the small white envelope from the bouquet before setting the flowers on my desk. I supposed I’d have to find a vase. My fingers trembled as I opened the envelope and slid out the card.
Darling, you look simply ravishing today. Good enough to drink. I think blue looks good on you.
Julian’s not-so-subtle warning made my blood run cold. Images of my mother’s lifeless body surged back—her lips and face tinged blue when we identified her at the morgue. Blue wasn’t just a color. Blue was death.