Page 68 of Played
He wants me to understand that he hasn't moved on, that he won't move on, that in his twisted mind I still belong to him somehow. He wants me to know he's still a very real threat, not just some fading memory I can dismiss or forget about. And most of all, he wants me to suffer—to feel even a fraction of the pain and humiliation he thinks I caused him when I finally escaped.
I grab the bouquet by its stems and shove it into the trash bin beside the porch. The thorns bite into my palm through the paper wrapping. I hiss, yank my hand back. A thin line of blood wells up across my thumb.
Thorns draw blood.
I slam the lid shut, heart hammering.
Inside, I lock the door. Chain it. Check the windows. My phone's on the coffee table where I left it, screen dark. I snatch it up, thumb hovering over Julian's name.
But what do I say?Hey, my psycho ex sent me creepy flowers.
I text Colleen instead.
Got another gift from you-know-who. Black roses this time. I'm officially freaked out.
The reply comes fast.
That's not a gift. That's a threat. You need to tell someone. Police. Julian. ANYONE.
I stare at her message.
She's right.
But admitting it makes it real.
Glossy, dark petals. Too perfect. Too deliberate.
They clearly were not from Julian.
Julian would send wildflowers. Sunflowers. Something bright and unexpected.
Not this.
And that note.
My breath comes too fast, shallow and ragged. I press my back into the chair—the one where I sat just five minutes ago, quietly enjoying my book—and I slide down until I'm sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest.
I thought moving in with Reeves would buy me distance. Safety. A buffer between me and whatever twisted game Daniel's playing.
But he's not done.
My psycho ex just sent me I WANT YOU DEAD flowers. No big deal.
I close my eyes, force myself to breathe.
In. Out.
In. Out.
The black roses sit in the bin on the porch like a threat.
And I know—deep in my bones—this is only the beginning.
Later, I go back out and drag the bouquet inside. Can't leave it on the porch for some reason… I just can’t stop thinking about it.
The roses sit on Reeves' kitchen table now, mocking me. Black petals curling at the edges, thorns gleaming under the overhead light.
I pull out a chair. Sit. Stare.
