Chapter 9 - Rose
ROSE
Aweek passes, quicker than I imagined.
It’s strange how quickly a place can start to feel familiar when you don’t have anywhere else to go. The house settles around me like it’s always been here, like I’ve always been meant to move through its rooms quietly, barefoot, careful not to disturb anything important.
I spend most of my time in the library.
It’s easy to lose hours there. Mornings bleed into afternoons while I read with my feet tucked under me, stacks of books growing at my side.
Botany texts, mostly. Old ones, annotated in margins by hands long gone.
Sometimes I take notes. Sometimes I just read until my eyes blur and my head feels full in a good way.
Matteo is almost never home.
I know this should make me feel safer. Sincerely, it actually does. No looming presence. No questions I don’t know how to answer. I can exist without being observed. And yet, somewhere between the third and fourth day, the quiet starts to feel less like peace and more like absence.
The first night I didn’t show up at work, Amber had lost her mind.
My phone had light up with texts before I could even think of what to say. Where are you? Are you okay? Rose, answer me right now. I watched the screen buzz from the armchair in the library, with Wasabi sprawled across my legs like he owned the place, and my chest tightened
I typed and deleted three different responses before settling on the easiest lie. I’m fine. I’m sick. Flu or something.
It worked.
As for my shit at the flower shop, a coworker had covered it. Good thing I don’t have a heartless boss. She’d approved my PTO without blinking and said it was about damn time I used some of it.
It took a while before Amber accepted my lie as truth. She’d continued texting, checking in, asking if I needed soup, if I want company, and even if she could come over.
Every message made my guilt press heavier. Still does.
I want to tell her the truth. That I’m safe. That I’m not alone. That someone is taking care of me in a way I don’t quite understand yet. But I don’t know who’s watching what, or how far this thing reaches, and the thought of putting Matteo’s name in writing makes my skin prickle.
Instead, I keep answering with half-truths and emojis and reassurances that feel thinner every day. I promise I’ll be back soon. I say I just need rest.
At night, when the house goes quiet and the library lights dim, I wonder how long I can keep this up.
And whether telling the truth would actually make things better—or just put more people in danger.
I take my mind off things by exploring.
The mansion is enormous, the kind of place that feels less like a house and more like a small, self-contained world.
According to my phone’s GPS, we’re somewhere in the New York State countryside, far enough out that the air smells different, cleaner, quieter.
The east wing alone takes me days to get through properly, rooms unfolding into other rooms, corridors that seem to stretch just a little farther than expected.
I keep my promise about the west wing. I pass the door more than once, slow my steps, look at it longer than I probably should, but I don’t touch the handle. Some lines feel important not to cross, even when no one is watching, although I can't deny I'm more than a little curious.
But everyone's entitled to their secrets. God knows I have my fair share.
Soon, the garden quickly becomes my favorite place.
I’d met Lara there on the second morning, all bright energy and sun, blond pixie cut and dirt permanently under her nails.
She's a bit young to be a full-time gardener, maybe twenty at the latest, but she is immaculate at it. She talks to plants the way people talk to old friends and doesn’t look at me like I’m strange for doing the same.
We bonded quickly, trading names and opinions, walking the paths while she explained what she’s been coaxing into bloom.
The greenhouse is where I fall a little bit in love.
It’s immaculate, glass panes catching the light, rows of plants organized with a care that borders on devotion.
Roses in every stage of growth, colors I don’t see often, varieties I’ve only read about.
I start bringing books there, curling up on a bench with my reading while the sun warms my back and the air smells alive.
Then, at night, I retreat into the library again.
Tonight, I’m still awake long past when I should be. I’ve pulled an old botany text from the shelves, one focused on medicinal and poisonous plants, its pages yellowed and dense with notes. I’m deep into a section on alkaloids when Wasabi stiffens beside me.
He hisses.
My heart jumps straight into my throat. Instinct takes over before reason can catch up. I grab the nearest pen and turn in my chair, ready to defend myself against whatever has decided to find me again.
A figure steps into the edge of the light.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Matteo says dryly, glancing with faint amusement at the pen in my grip.
I lower it, feeling a little foolish now that my pulse has stopped trying to escape my body. “You’re really not helping your reputation,” I tell him.
“That I arrive unannounced?” he asks, stepping fully into the light. “Or that you’re armed every time I do?”
“Both,” I say. Then, because my heart is still racing, I add, “Mostly the second one.”
His gaze flicks to the book open on the table. “What are you reading?”
I follow his eyes and turn the volume slightly so he can see the page. “Poisonous and medicinal plants. Old classifications. Questionable illustrations. My comfort reading.”
He hums softly. “Find anything interesting?”
“Belladonna,” I say immediately. “Deadly nightshade. Beautiful, deceptive, and very thorough if you misuse it.” I tap the margin, where I’ve been scribbling notes. “The line between medicine and poison is always dosage. People forget that.”
His expression turns amused. “Do you know what it means?”
“What?”
“Belladonna. It’s an Italian word. Two words, in fact.” He leans in just a fraction. “It means beautiful woman.”
I can feel the blush creep up my cheeks. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Kind of misleading for such a dangerous plant.”
“And yet accurate.” His eyes go dark. “It is beautiful.”
“I know. I saw it in the greenhouse,” I whisper. “Yes. You grow it.”
“I do.”
There’s something about the way he says it that sends a small shiver down my spine.
Not fear. Awareness. I glance back at the illustration, at the dark berries and delicate flowers.
“It suits you,” I say before I can stop myself.
“The plant, I mean. Beautiful. Dangerous. Misunderstood if you don’t know what you’re looking at. ”
Silence stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“I get a sense of danger around you,” I add quietly. “Between that and the rumors at the restaurant… sometimes it feels like you carry it with you.”
His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “What if it were true?”
My throat tightens. I swallow, choosing my words carefully. “Then it’s still not my place to judge,” I say. “Everyone is entitled to their secrets. Their way of life.” I meet his gaze. “I’m no one’s moral compass.”
Something shifts in the air between us, subtle but unmistakable. His attention feels heavier now, focused in a way that makes my skin warm.
“Good,” he says softly.
I don’t know why that word lands the way it does. I only know the room feels smaller suddenly, and the quiet between us hums with something that isn’t quite fear—and isn’t quite safe, either.
We’re close enough now that I can make out the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the line of his mouth, the subtle shift in his breathing. My pulse trips. The air between us feels warmer, heavier, like the room has quietly moved in around us.
If I leaned forward, just a little, our mouths would meet.
The thought arrives uninvited and refuses to leave.
I look up and find him already watching me. For a heartbeat, neither of us says anything. The world narrows to the rustle of paper, the soft hum of the lamp, the careful space between us.
Then he pulls back.
The distance returns all at once—precise, decisive, like a line redrawn. He closes the book with more care than necessary and straightens, his voice low but steady. “It’s late,” he says. “You should rest.”
Before I can answer, he steps away from the table.
“Goodnight, Rose.”
I sit there for a few seconds after he’s gone, the ghost of his nearness still clinging to the air, the page under my hand warm where his fingers had been.