Chapter 8

The bell above the door jingled as I stepped into Ella’s.

Warm lights, soft chatter, and the rich aroma of roasted beans wrapped around me like a hug. It was quiet enough to think, but busy enough to get lost in.

And right in the corner, in her usual spot by the window, was Mia waving her arms like I was a runaway dog.

I forced a smile and walked over, dropping into the seat across from her with a sigh of pure exhaustion.

“You look like you survived a war,” she said, sliding a croissant toward me.

“It felt like one,” I muttered. “One where the enemy wore designer heels and sprayed herself with a thousand-dollar grudge.”

“Isabelle again?”

“Isabelle always,” I sighed.

She sipped her coffee, watching me carefully. “You okay?”

I broke off a piece of the croissant. “Not really. But I’m getting there.”

And I was. Sort of.

Sitting across from Mia, in this tiny sanctuary we’d discovered back in college, felt like breathing after drowning.

“So,” she said, leaning in. “What exactly did she say?”

I rolled my eyes. “The usual. That I’m trash. That's Matteo’s. That I don’t belong in his world.”

“She said that?”

“Word for word. And then she called me a distraction with a desk job.”

Mia’s jaw dropped. “Okay, I take back everything nice I ever said about her hair. That’s evil.”

We laughed. For real, this time.

And just for a second, everything felt normal.

Until someone cleared their throat beside me.

I looked up.

A young guy maybe early twenties, in a crisp black button-up stood beside our table holding a massive bouquet.

I blinked.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Are those… for us?”

He smiled. “Sarah Hart?”

My stomach dropped.

Mia raised an eyebrow. “Okay, that’s either super sweet… or super sketchy.”

“Uh… that’s me,” I said cautiously.

He gently placed the bouquet in front of me, then handed me a small envelope. “These were left at the front. No sender name, just your name on the card.”

“Thank you,” I mumbled, staring at the ridiculously beautiful bouquet of deep red roses, soft white peonies, and tiny black feathers tucked into the arrangement.

Black feathers?

That felt intentional.

I opened the envelope.

No note. Just one line, written in clean, bold handwriting:

“Don’t get comfortable.”

I froze.

“What does it say?” Mia leaned in.

I handed it to her, watching her expression darken as she read.

“What the hell?” she muttered. “No name. No number. Who sends this kind of message with flowers?”

I stared at the bouquet again.

The roses were blood red.

The petals looked like velvet and the black feathers were unmistakably real.

Suddenly, the cozy café felt too warm. Too loud.

“Do you think it was Matteo?” Mia asked cautiously.

I shook my head. “No. If it were him… he’d sign it. Or show up with some dramatic apology.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then you think it’s Isabelle?”

I didn’t answer right away. My stomach told me it wasn’t her, but my brain screamed otherwise.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But whoever it is… they want me to be nervous.”

“Well, congratulations,” Mia said grimly. “It’s working.”

We didn’t talk much after that.

Even Mia was quiet, sipping her latte and glancing toward the door every few minutes like she expected someone else to walk in.

I stared at the bouquet for what felt like forever.

It didn’t feel like a gift.

It felt like a message.

A reminder.

A threat dressed in petals and perfume.

Eventually, Mia stood. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I don’t want you sitting here all night staring at those creepy feathers.”

We left the café together, my fingers still clutching the envelope, the chill outside biting at my skin.

But inside, I felt something else brewing.

Something cold.

Something dangerous.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment over and over again.

The card.

The flowers.

The words.

“Don’t get comfortable.”

My phone buzzed.

A text.

From a number I didn’t recognize.

Unknown:

“You looked better when you kept your head down.”

I sat up, heart pounding.

Another text followed.

“You’re not untouchable, Sarah.”

I didn’t breathe.

Didn’t move.

But every nerve in my body lit up with warning.

And just like that, the fear I thought I’d buried returned in full force.

***

The sun was barely up when I rolled over in bed and groaned into my pillow.

My body ached like I hadn’t slept at all which, technically, was true. I’d tossed and turned for hours after Mia and I parted ways. That damn note wouldn’t leave my head.

You looked better when you kept your head down.

You’re not untouchable, Sarah.

The memory sat heavy in my stomach, coiled and cold like a snake.

Still, I got up.

I showered, dressed in an oversized hoodie and shorts, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. I didn’t turn on any lights. The daylight was enough, spilling across my countertops in sleepy stripes.

My fingers hovered over my phone on the table, but I didn’t pick it up. I wasn’t ready to face the flood of messages from Mia or the possible silence from Matteo.

So I cooked instead.

Or tried to.

Cooking was my way of pretending things were okay. A strange ritual I’d picked up from my mom who always made scrambled eggs when she was stressed. She used to say “If I can still cook, I can still think.”

So I cracked eggs. Popped bread into the toaster. Sliced some tomatoes, placed them neatly in a bowl, and tried not to think about bouquets wrapped in red and black.

For a second, it worked.

The sizzle of butter in the pan was oddly soothing. The toast popped up at the perfect golden brown. My breathing started to level out.

Then I reached for the serrated knife.

The one I kept too sharp.

I grabbed the avocado with my left hand and the knife with my right.

But I wasn’t paying attention.

My thoughts wandered back to the flowers, back to that card, back to the look in Matteo’s eyes before he turned away.

And then.

“Ahh! Shit!”

The pain was instant and hot, blooming across the center of my palm like fire.

The knife clattered to the floor, blood already rushing out of the slice.

I staggered back, gripping my hand instinctively. “Shit, shit, shit”

Panic surged as I saw the deep gash across the base of my thumb. The blood dripped freely now, warm and terrifying, coating my skin and starting to pool on the tiled floor.

I pressed my hand against my shirt, breath catching.

“Okay… okay,” I murmured, heart pounding as I stumbled toward the bathroom. “First aid kit. Bandages. You got this.”

But my vision swam slightly. The pain kept pulsing harder and faster and my fingers were already stiffening. My right hand. My dominant hand.

I turned on the faucet and hissed through my teeth as the cold water hit the open cut. Blood spiraled down the drain in ribbons.

The room felt too quiet. Too bright. Too clean for something so ugly to be happening.

I wrapped a towel around my hand and leaned over the sink, chest heaving.

Not today. Not like this.

As if I hadn’t already endured enough. Matteo’s insults. Isabelle’s claws. The flowers. The anonymous texts.

Now I was bleeding alone in my bathroom, from a wound I gave myself while trying to do something as basic as functioning.

I blinked hard.

But a tear escaped anyway, trailing down my cheek as I sank to the floor.

I sat there for what felt like forever hand throbbing, pulse racing, mind spiraling.

Eventually, I found the strength to crawl over to the cabinet and dig out the first aid kit. It wasn’t much just a basic drugstore box but it had the essentials. Alcohol. Bandages. Gauze.

Trying to open anything with one hand was hell. I used my teeth. My knee. Anything I could.

It wasn’t perfect. The wrap was crooked. The pain was still sharp. But at least I wasn’t bleeding all over the tile anymore.

And once the adrenaline started to fade, something else crept in behind it:

Fear.

This wasn’t just an accident.

Not really.

I’d been distracted. Consumed. Shaken from the inside out. Whoever sent those flowers, whoever texted me it was working.

They were getting to me.

I used to think I was tough enough to handle whatever came my way.

Now I wasn’t so sure.

The apartment was still. Too still.

I sat hunched over the kitchen table, the fresh bandage around my right hand already tight and awkward. The pain hadn’t dulled much it pulsed beneath the gauze like a warning but at least the bleeding had stopped.

It took everything I had to wrap it myself. I fumbled through the process with one good hand, my jaw clenched the whole time as I tore packaging with my teeth, balanced the gauze on the counter, and swore under my breath every time I dropped something.

By the time I finished, I was sweating.

I hadn’t cried again, but only because I was too mad to.

Now, with the mess cleaned up and the kitchen quiet again, I finally sat down to eat.

The scrambled eggs were cold.

The toast, dry and stiff.

I stared at the plate for a moment, then reluctantly picked up the fork with my left hand my non-dominant, clumsy hand, and stabbed a piece of egg.

It slipped off the fork.

I tried again.

And again.

On the third attempt, I finally got a bite to my mouth, chewing like it was some sort of punishment.

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, grimacing as I awkwardly reached for the toast and nearly knocked the whole plate off the table.

Everything took twice as long. Holding the fork. Cutting anything. Even sipping coffee was uncomfortable because my fingers instinctively reached for the mug with the wrong hand.

I glanced at the clock on the wall.

Then froze.

8:57 a.m.

Panic surged through my chest.

“Oh, shit”

I jumped up too fast, banging my knee on the underside of the table and hissing through my teeth as I reached for my phone.

Ten missed notifications.

Three texts from Mia.

One from my department head.

And two unread emails from Matteo.

I’d meant to be at work before eight. I’d promised myself I would.

To stay ahead of the day. To avoid him. To prove after everything that I wasn’t going to fall apart over some stupid flowers or some emotionally constipated billionaire with a God complex.

But now?

I was going to walk in late, injured, humiliated, and looking like a hot mess.

Great.

I tossed the rest of the toast in the trash, grabbed my coat with my left hand, and did my best to pull it on without jostling the bandage.

Each movement was a reminder of what I’d done.

Not just the injury but how off balance I felt.

Like my life had shifted slightly off its axis.

And for the first time in weeks, I didn’t know how to fix it.

I managed to twist my hair into a low, crooked bun using one hand and a lot of frustration, then slipped on my flats and grabbed my bag carefully, so it wouldn’t bump my wrapped hand.

Each movement sent a dull throb through my palm, but I forced myself through it.

Pain or not, I had to go.

I couldn’t give anyone, especially Matteo or Isabelle the satisfaction of thinking I was weak.

With one last glance at the clock and a muttered curse, I threw open the door and stepped into the hallway, bracing myself for whatever hell awaited me at work.

The doors closed behind me, and I leaned against the wall, clutching my bag in my good hand. My heart raced, my bandaged palm throbbed, and every second ticked louder in my ears. I was late, in pain, and barely holding it together. But quitting? Not an option.