Chapter 3: Roses and Shackles

Everyone knows, the one who dies later has to clean up the mess for the first.

I crossed my arms, but Mariah just grinned.

Mariah said, "Rock, paper, scissors."

We squared off, hands poised. It was our go-to for every important decision, from pizza toppings to fake deaths. The slap of our hands filled the room, and we both burst out laughing.

She won.

I said, "Best two out of three."

I was determined to win at least once, but luck wasn’t on my side.

She won again.

I grumbled, "Fine, fine, you die first!"

I flopped back on the bed, resigned. Mariah just winked, already plotting her grand exit, humming the Mission Impossible theme under her breath.

---

Mariah strutted off to prepare her tragic demise.

She practiced her best faint in front of the bathroom mirror, then texted me a selfie with the caption, "See you on the other side." She’d even added a dramatic black-and-white filter, just for effect.

I went home to pack my things.

The mansion was quiet, every creak of the floorboards amplified in the silence. I tiptoed through the halls, ears straining for the hum of security cameras. My heart thudded as I stuffed essentials into a duffel—passport, cash, the emergency chocolate stash Mariah insisted I keep for stress.

I hid the most valuable stuff in the basement.

There was a loose floorboard behind the wine racks—our secret hiding spot for years. I tucked jewelry, backup IDs, and a flash drive of incriminating photos in an old cigar box, the musty scent of aged wood filling my nose.

But as soon as I walked in, someone blindfolded me.

A silk tie slid over my eyes, the smoky, expensive scent of Victor’s cologne flooding my senses, making my pulse spike. I froze, hands up, heart hammering so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

Victor Blackwell used his tie to cover my eyes, whispering in my ear:

His voice was low, dangerously soft, each word a brush of warm breath against my cheek. Goosebumps prickled along my arms.

"Where’d you go?"

He smelled faintly of blood—maybe he’d just dealt with someone. The coppery tang mingled with his aftershave, making my stomach twist with fear and something else I didn’t want to name.

Even after three years, I was still subconsciously scared of Victor. My voice shook: "I went to buy you a present."

I tried to sound casual, but the words tumbled out too fast. My palms were slick with sweat, and I prayed he wouldn’t notice.

I opened my hand, revealing a silver rose-shaped pin.

The pin glinted in the dim light, delicate and elegant. I’d picked it up at a boutique downtown, hoping it would distract him, praying it would buy me a little more time.

It wasn’t expensive, but Victor actually looked happy.

His lips curled into a rare smile, eyes softening for a fleeting moment. For a second, he almost looked human.

He picked me up and set me on the grand piano.

He lifted me effortlessly, settling me atop the glossy Steinway in the music room. The cool surface pressed against my thighs, the faint scent of polished wood and roses filling the air. Dust motes floated in a shaft of moonlight, swirling between us.

"What do you want to hear tonight?"

His fingers hovered above the keys, waiting. The air vibrated with anticipation.

I obediently replied, "Whatever you play is fine."

I tucked my hair behind my ear, trying to look demure. Victor liked it when I acted shy, so I gave him my best wide-eyed look.

Ten years ago, Victor’s father hated him so much he had him committed to an asylum. Victor was abused and electroshocked every day, tried to kill himself more times than he could count. Until one day, he found a rose garden and an old piano in the asylum. He played there every day, and a girl would listen from outside the fence.

That girl was Savannah Rivers.

The story was legend in their circles—everyone whispered about the piano, the roses, the mysterious girl who watched from the other side of the fence. The only time I’d seen Victor truly at peace was when he played, lost in the music and memories.

...

After I came to Victor, he planted a rose garden for me. He made me wear a white dress and listen to him play piano, trying to recreate his lost memory, down to the last detail. Sometimes, I wondered if he even saw me at all.

Tonight, Victor’s playing was agitated, the notes sharp and restless. Halfway through, he stopped abruptly, grabbed my calf, and pulled me off the piano and into his arms.

The music crashed to a halt, a discordant jumble of notes ringing through the silent house. I yelped as he pulled me down, his grip firm but not painful, the keys clattering beneath me.

I landed hard on the keys, the jarring sound echoing through the room and startling a flock of birds outside. My heart pounded, breath coming in shallow bursts.

Victor kissed me—hungry, possessive, his breath and mood as wild as the music had been.

His lips were rough, demanding. I clung to him, mind spinning with fear, excitement, and confusion. Was this love, or just another way to claim what wasn’t his?

He said, "Next time, don’t leave without telling me."

His voice was low, almost pleading beneath the anger. I nodded, hoping to appease him, my throat tight.

"Mmhmm..."