White Roses

Daniel did not leave for forty minutes.

He stood outside the glass door with both hands folded in front of him, black suit dry despite the rain, expression calm enough to be mistaken for kindness. Every ten minutes, he knocked.

Not harder.

Never rude.

Just enough to remind us that waiting was also a form of pressure.

Mara whispered, "I can call building security."

"And say what? My husband's driver is being polite?"

"I hate when you are right."

"So do I."

My phone buzzed again.

Grant: Daniel says the door is locked.

Grant: Open it, Evie.

Grant: You are making this stranger than it needs to be.

That last message stayed on the screen.

Stranger than it needs to be.

Not dangerous. Not frightening. Strange.

Another label, neatly prepared.

I typed back with slow control.

Evelyn: I am in a client meeting.

Grant replied before I put the phone down.

Grant: There is no client in your office.

Mara read the message over my shoulder and went very still.

"How does he know that?"

I looked at the ceiling corners.

Vale & Vow had cameras in the public areas, not in my private office. Clients liked security until they felt watched. The demo room cameras were ours, local feed only. At least, they had been local the last time I checked.

The thought landed badly.

My studio was built on controlled visibility. I chose what guests saw. I chose which angle hid a shaking hand, which microphone caught a vow, which hallway stayed private.

If Grant could see inside that system, he had not only entered my office.

He had entered the part of my life I thought still belonged to me.

I opened the studio security app.

The reception feed was offline.

The demo room feed was active.

Not by me.

My skin went cold in a clean sheet.

"Mara."

She saw it.

"No," she said. "No, those are not connected to external access."

"They are now."

I shut the camera feed down from the admin panel. The system asked for confirmation. I clicked yes.

Access denied.

My own studio denied me.

Daniel knocked again.

This time, I walked to the door.

Mara grabbed my sleeve. "Do not."

"I need him to see me calm."

"Why?"

"Because Grant needs witnesses who say I was not."

Mara let go.

I opened the glass door six inches.

Daniel dipped his head. "Mrs. Whitmore."

"Ms. Vale at work."

He blinked once. Good. I was still capable of surprising the staff.

"Mr. Whitmore asked me to take you home."

"Mr. Whitmore can ask me himself."

"He is concerned."

"He has mentioned that."

Daniel's gaze moved past me, searching the office.

I stepped into the gap.

"Eyes here."

He looked back at me.

For the first time, his polite mask thinned.

"Ma'am, I was instructed not to leave without you."

"Then you will have a long day."

I closed the door.

My heart was beating hard enough that Mara could probably hear it, but my hand stayed steady on the lock.

Daniel remained outside.

At 11:12 a.m., he at last walked back to the elevator.

At 11:14, a delivery man arrived.

He carried a long white box tied with satin ribbon.

Mara looked at it through the glass.

"Absolutely not."

The delivery man checked his tablet. "Vale & Vow?"

"Leave it," I called.

He placed the box on the floor and left.

No sender name on the outside.

No florist mark.

Just my office address printed on a label.

Mara said, "We are not opening that."

"We are."

"Of course we are. Why would fear ever stop us from being organized?"

I took a pair of scissors from reception and cut the ribbon.

Inside lay twelve white roses.

Not wedding white. Funeral white. Large heads, no thorns, stems wrapped in pale gray silk.

My fingers went numb.

In the memorial preview, those roses had rested on my coffin.

Mara whispered, "Evelyn."

I lifted the card tucked under the top bloom.

The envelope was blank.

The card inside was printed, not handwritten.

From the grieving husband.

For a moment, the office tilted.

Then I forced myself to breathe through my nose, slow and silent.

Mara reached for the card.

"Do not touch it."

She froze.

"Fingerprint fantasy?"

"Probably useless," I said. "But let me have the fantasy for ten seconds."

I photographed the roses from every angle. The ribbon. The label. The card. The fold in the tissue paper. Then I opened the warning preview in my memory because the real one was gone.

White roses.

Gray silk.

Closed coffin.

The same.

Mara stood by the reception desk, arms wrapped around herself.

"Do you want me to throw them out?"

"No."

"Evelyn, they are funeral flowers."

"Exactly."

I found an empty acrylic evidence sleeve in the storage drawer. It was meant for preserving antique place cards before scanning. Today, it held the message from my supposed grieving husband.

The roses stayed in the box.

I did not want them in water.

Living things looked too obedient when you arranged them for death.

Especially mine.

"This is not a glitch," Mara said.

No.

It was a delivery.

A prop had stepped out of tomorrow and landed at my office door.

My phone buzzed again.

This time, no name.

Unknown number.

One image.

The same bouquet, resting on top of a closed coffin.

Under it, a caption:

Tomorrow will look beautiful.