The ghost in the glass

The morning after Damian's vow should have been peaceful.

But peace had no place in their story.

Alina woke to silence. Not the comfortable quiet of shared intimacy — but the kind of silence that hummed with absence. Damian wasn't in bed. The sheets beside her were cold. She sat up, eyes sweeping the room.

Then she saw it.

A single rose lay on the windowsill. Crimson. Delicate. A black velvet ribbon tied around its stem.

It wasn't from Damian.

---

She stood slowly, heart hammering as she moved closer. A slip of white paper was tucked beneath the ribbon. Her name was written in elegant cursive.

Alina.

Her breath caught as she unfolded the note.

> He's powerful, yes. But not invincible. Ask yourself, Alina — how many more bodies before he breaks? And when he does… where will that leave you?

No signature. No scent. Nothing to trace.

She dropped the note like it burned her fingers.

---

Downstairs, Damian stood in his office, fists clenched on the edge of his desk as two men briefed him in hushed tones. When Alina entered, he turned instantly, reading her expression like a book.

"What happened?"

Wordlessly, she held out the rose and the note.

Damian's jaw tensed as he read. "Celeste," he muttered.

"Are you sure?"

He nodded. "She always preferred theatrics over confrontation. Roses, riddles, veiled threats. This is her signature."

Alina swallowed. "So she's here."

"Worse," he said, voice like steel. "She's already inside."

---

They searched the house. Nothing broken, nothing stolen. No cameras offline, no guards missing. But the message was clear: someone got past them all.

"She won't come for you directly," Damian said later, his hand tight on Alina's as they stood in the library. "She'll try to isolate you first. Make you question me. Make you doubt."

Alina stared at the fireplace, watching the flames devour the rose and note Damian had thrown in. "Will it work?"

He didn't answer immediately. When he finally spoke, it wasn't an answer — it was a question.

"Do you trust me?"

She turned to him. "Yes. But I need to know you trust me."

His eyes softened. "More than anyone. And that terrifies me."

---

That night, he didn't take her fast or rough.

He undressed her — slowly, reverently — as if every inch of skin was a prayer answered. His mouth was a promise at her throat. His hands were a plea at her hips.

"Stay with me," he whispered as their bodies moved in perfect rhythm.

"I already am," she breathed.

"No. I mean stay. Even when it gets worse."

She cupped his face. "I won't run from your darkness."

He closed his eyes. "Then I swear — I won't let it swallow us."

---

But outside the mansion, a different vow was forming.

In a black car across the street, Celeste watched the house through binoculars, her smile ice-cold.

"She's too soft," she murmured. "Too human. She'll be his ruin."

The man beside her said nothing.

Celeste traced her nail down the glass.

"Let's make her bleed next."