Bloom

Bloom opened her eyes to see a familiar room. Everything was pink. It was the old house.

She sat up and came face-to-face with her father. He was seated at the end of the bed, his expression murderous, and in his hand, he slowly spun a sleek black gun. Behind him, a few guards knelt, cowering. Some of them were bleeding. One had an obvious gunshot wound in his thigh, yet he remained on his knees, gritting his teeth, his face pale.

Bloom swallowed. Her throat was dry. She reached for the glass of water beside the table. As she drank, she recalled the last few minutes before she had passed out.

Esther had grabbed her hand, fear and urgency in her eyes. Bloom had been annoyed and tried to shake her off. But when she heard the door beside her open, she knew she was in danger.

She had quickly latched onto Esther. Just a little delay—her father's men would be here. Just a little more time.