Chapter 7 - Rose
ROSE
Iopen my eyes and I’m immediately hit with confusion.
The ceiling above me isn’t cracked plaster stained with old water damage. It’s smooth, pale, too high, with light filtering in from somewhere I can’t immediately place. The air smells clean. Not like bleach or rot or reheated leftovers, but something neutral and expensive.
My heart slams into overdrive.
I sit up too fast, breath tearing out of me, and the first thing I notice is green.
Leaves. Pots. Familiar shapes clustered around the room like they’ve staged an intervention.
My pothos, trailing exactly the way it always does.
The snake plant I keep forgetting to kill.
Even my dramatic calathea, sulking in the corner like it’s personally offended by the lighting.
My plants.
My stomach drops.
That makes no sense. None of this does.
The memory hits all at once: hallway, hand over my mouth, the smell, panic, and then darkness. That’s all I remember.
I swing my legs off the bed, pulse roaring in my ears, and scan the room for exits. It’s big. Too big. Tastefully furnished in a way that screams money without needing to prove it.
This is not my apartment. Panic sets in.
He got to me.
The thought is sharp and immediate, slicing through everything else. I feel it settle into my bones with horrible certainty. I don’t scream. I don’t freeze. I move.
My gaze lands on the desk near the window. Pens. Heavy ones. Metal.
Good enough.
I grab one and curl my fingers around it the way I once learned you’re supposed to hold a knife, point down, grip tight, aim for soft tissue. My hands are steady. My mouth is dry.
The door opens.
I spin, pen raised, ready to stab whoever steps inside.
“Rose.”
The voice stops me cold.
Matteo Moretti stands in the doorway, hands visible, posture calm but alert like he’s prepared for exactly this reaction.
I suck in a shaky breath. “Mr. Moretti?”
Relief crashes into me so hard my knees threaten to buckle. My grip loosens and the pen clatters to the floor, suddenly ridiculous.
“Matteo is fine.” His gaze follows the pen on the floor with a mix of perplexity and amusement. “Were you going to stab me with that?”
“… Maybe?” I squeak.
His mouth twitches. A ghost of a smirk. It fills me with an odd sort of warmth. I’m not used to seeing Matteo Moretti smiling.
Actually, I’m not used to seeing him outside of work at all. I’m surprised he even knows my name.
He looks the same as he always does: dark suit, dangerous presence, shockingly hot features. The hint of washboard abs under his fitted shirt. Not that I’ve thought about them. Much.
But there’s something different in his golden eyes now: concern.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to make sense of anything at all. “Why am I here?” My voice cracks despite my best efforts. “Why are my plants here? Did you…” A horrible flicker of suspicion darts through me. “Did you kidnap me?”
A low, indignant yowl answers before he can.
Wasabi jumps onto the bed, lands squarely on my lap, and fixes me with his one good eye like he’s daring me to question his authority. Warm. Solid. Real.
My breath finally breaks. I scoop him up and press my face into his fur, laughing weakly because crying feels like it might never stop once it starts.
“Did you kidnap me and my cat?” I mumble incredulously.
Matteo huffs something that might be a laugh. “He was… persuasive. But no, Miss Brown, I did not kidnap you. That was someone else’s objective last night.” His face turns hard. “And I was not going to stand and watch.”
I look up at him then, really look, confusion tangling with gratitude and fear. “You saved me,” I say, because that much is suddenly very clear.
“Yes,” he answers simply.
Nothing about this makes sense. He said “stand and watch,” but what reason could he possibly have had to be there? At my apartment?
But for the first time since I woke up, my heart slows enough that I can breathe.
I’m not in his hands.
I’m safe.
For now.
Matteo doesn’t rush me. He steps farther into the room only after I nod, stopping a careful distance away, like he’s very aware of how easily he could spook me.
“You passed out after,” he says. “In the hallway. Someone tried to drug you. Put a cloth over your mouth. You fought.”
As he speaks, the memories come back in jagged flashes. The smell. The pressure. My lungs burning. The panic so sharp it bordered on clarity. I flinch without meaning to, Wasabi tightening his grip on my shirt like he’s anchoring me in place.
“And then you,” I say quietly. “You were there.”
“Yes.”
I swallow. “Did you see him?”
“No,” he says. “He ran.”
“Did I…?” The question comes out thin. “Say anything? Recognize him?”
“Not that I heard.” He watches my face closely. “Why? Do you suspect someone?”
Yes. “No,” I lie. “And I don’t think I saw him either, anyway. It was dark. It all happened too fast.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “Do you have any idea who he might’ve been working for?”
There it is.
I shake my head immediately. “No. I mean—no. Florists don’t have many enemies, after all. Unless you count the pesticide industry.”
I don’t say the rest. That I do have a past. That there was a man once who didn’t like being told no. That white roses don’t just show up without reason. Saying it out loud would make it real, and I can’t afford that.
Worse, it would involve Matteo. And I have already involved him enough. He doesn’t need more of my problems dumped into his lap.
“It was probably random,” I add quickly, like if I say it with enough confidence it’ll stick. “Wrong place. Wrong time.”
Matteo studies me for a long moment. He doesn’t argue, but his expression tells me he doesn’t agree either.
“Thank you,” I say instead, because gratitude is easier than fear. “For helping me. For… all of this.” I gesture weakly at the room, the plants, my cat still glued to my chest.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
I draw in a deep breath. “I should go home.”
“You don’t have to.” His voice is calm. “You can stay here. As long as you need.”
The words land softly, but they hit something sharp inside me anyway. I look at him, really look, and the relief I felt twists into suspicion.
Finally, the question I’ve been avoiding flashes bright into my mind. The only thing I can see. Why was Matteo Moretti on my doorstep last night?
“You knew,” I finally say. My voice isn’t accusing, just careful. “You knew someone was going to hurt me. That’s why you were there.”
He doesn’t deny it. “I was watching you,” he says. “Making sure you got home safe.”
I swallow. “So you stalked me.”
“Yes.”
The honesty throws me more than an excuse would have. My heart stutters, fear flaring bright—
And then, unexpectedly, dimming.
Because that’s what the second presence was, right? That distant protection I kept feeling as I walked in the dark. Not the wolf, but the bigger thing behind it.
“Do you think I’m a threat to you?” he asks.
The question hangs between us.
I search myself for the answer, waiting for instinct to scream at me to run. It doesn’t. Instead, what I feel is steady. Solid. The same strange certainty I felt every time I caught him watching me from across a room.
“No,” I hear myself confess.
Something shifts in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or resolve.
“Then I need you to promise me something,” he says. “You don’t tell anyone where you are. Not friends. Not work. No one. Whoever was watching you can’t be given another way in. Until we catch him, you’ll be under my protection.”
Who’s we? I nearly ask, but then think better of it.
Under his protection. In his house. With my plants and my things and my psycho of a cat. It sounds like a fairytale gone wrong. A twisted parody of one.
But I don’t exactly have better choices, do I?
Besides, Matteo saved me. He’s offering me his home out of the goodness of his heart—I hope—and for no other reason I can discern. It’s more than I could ever have hoped for.
I hesitate, then nod. “Okay.”
“You have full rein of the house,” he continues. “Anywhere you want to go. Except the west wing.”
“The west wing,” I repeat, eyebrows lifting.
“It’s not for guests,” he says flatly.
It sounds insane. All of this. Me, staying here, and then this strange footnote at the end of it all.
It’s enough to nearly make me break into hysterics.
Not because I want to go to the famed west wing or whatever, but because who does even have “wings” in their house in the 21st century? In New York?
Rich people, the cynical part of me whispers. Bad people. Like the ones you ran from.
“That’s where you keep the rose under glass, right?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood in my head. “Enchanted curse, dramatic lighting, whole thing?”
He doesn’t laugh.
The silence stretches just long enough for me to realize I’ve misjudged the moment. “Sorry,” I add quickly. “I won’t go in. I promise.”
He nods once, accepting it.
“There is one place you might like,” he says instead. “The library.”
My head snaps up. “Library?”
Something like satisfaction flickers across his face at my reaction.
He gestures for me to follow. I slide off the bed, Wasabi tucked firmly in my arms, and trail after him down the hall.