Footsteps. Soft, but definitely there, and somewhere behind me.
I slow my pace, listening carefully. The footsteps seem to slow too, matching my rhythm. My heart starts to beat faster. I turn around, scanning the path behind me. The walkway is empty ofother people. Nothing moves except the gentle sway of branches in the breeze. “Hello?” I call out, feeling foolish but unable to ignore the unease.
No response besides the sound of rain on leaves and the wind blowing through the branches. I shake my head and continue walking. I’m being paranoid. The engagement party, unspoken breakup, and unrevealed pregnancy have me so on edge that I’m imagining things that aren’t there.
I still can’t shake the feeling someone is watching me. The trees along the path create pockets of shadow even in the gray daylight, and every rustling branch makes me jump. I pick up my pace, eager to reach the greenhouse complex where there will be other people and other sounds besides my own footsteps on the wet gravel.
The greenhouse complex comes into view, a series of glass structures connected by covered walkways. I check the delivery area first, noting several pallets of supplies that match items on my list. The vendors did deliver, but maybe not everything the gardener who placed the order was expecting.
I spend the next hour cataloging what’s there and what’s missing, calling suppliers to confirm delivery schedules and resolve discrepancies. The work is routine and comforting in its familiarity. For a brief moment, I can almost forget about the baby growing inside me, Yarik’s engagement, and the way my life has become impossibly complicated.
One of the groundskeepers, an older man named Tom, approaches while I’m checking off items on my clipboard. “Finding everything you need, Sarah?” He clearly remembers me from my one-day stint as a gardening associate for the estate.
I smile warmly. “I’ve mostly handled the discrepancies. It looks like the fertilizer delivery is short a few bags, and I still need call the supplier to confirm.”
“Ah, that explains it. Mr. Barinov was asking about that yesterday. He seemed concerned about the timing with the new plantings.”
I nod, slightly surprised that even in the middle of everything else, Yarik is still managing every detail of the estate. I shouldn’t be surprised. It fully aligns with his attention to the smallest elements of his world, and the way he notices when things are out of place. “I’ll make sure it gets sorted out.”
Tom tips his cap and continues on his way, leaving me alone with my checklist and my thoughts. The interaction reminds me how normal my life used to be for a brief time after escaping Alex and leaving New York City. I’d wake up, go to work, and come home. There were no secrets, no danger, and no impossible choices for eight blissful months.
When I finish, I follow the path back toward the main house. The rain has stopped completely now, leaving the world fresh and clean. I’m almost enjoying the walk when I notice something that makes me jerk to a stop.
On the wooden bench near the estate’s side gate, someone has placed a single red rose. It’s fresh, and the petals are still perfect, with water droplets clinging to its surface. It wasn’t there when I walked by earlier.
My stomach lurches, and not from morning sickness. I approach the bench slowly, as if the rose might bite me. There’s no note or explanation. Just the flower, placed carefully in the center of the bench like an offering.
Or a message.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone, checking for missed calls or texts. There’s nothing, but the rose sits there, innocent, beautiful, and absolutely terrifying.
Alex always brought me red roses. Every time he hit me, every time he screamed at me, and every time he made me feel small and worthless… Afterward, the apology always came with a red rose. “I’m sorry, baby. You know I love you. Here, I got you something beautiful, just like you.” That was followed by promises to never do it again, but they were lies. He always did it again until I managed to escape.
The memory makes bile rise in my throat. I back away from the bench, clutching the clipboard to my chest like a shield. It’s nothing. It has to be nothing. It’s just a coincidence, a gardener’s mistake, and might not even be for me. It could be a romantic gesture meant for someone else.
Even as I tell myself this, I know it’s not true. The rose feels like a message. Alex might be here, in Greenwich, watching me. The cologne at the café, the footsteps on the path, and now this rose could all be connected.
I turn and hurry toward the main house, my mouth dry. I don’t run, but I walk fast enough that Mrs. Nykova looks up with concern when I enter through the side door.
“Miss Clark? Is everything all right?”
“Fine.” I try to steady my breathing. “I just wanted to get out of the rain. I’m finished with the greenhouse inventory and will have the supplier reports ready within the hour.”
She nods and returns to her paperwork. I hurry to my office and close the door, sinking into my chair with relief. I’m safe here. As I try to calm down, I can’t get rid of the image of that rose, waiting for me to find it.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of routine tasks. I make calls to suppliers, update inventory records, and respond to emails. It’s normal work that requires just enough concentration to keep my mind from spiraling. Yarik doesn’t appear in my office, doesn’t send for me, and doesn’t acknowledge my existence beyond the professional assignment he gave me this morning.
It’s exactly what I wanted… No,neededto stick to my decision that we’re over. I have to have professional distance and a clear boundary between what we had and what we can never have again.
So why does it feel like I’m slowly suffocating?
I leave the estate at my usual time, checking my mirrors more carefully than usual during the drive home. Every car behind me could be him. By the time I reach my apartment, my nerves are frayed.
The parking lot feels too exposed, with too many places for someone to hide. I sit in my car for a long moment after turning off the engine, scanning the area around my building. A couple is walking their dog, and there’s a teenager on a skateboard. I’m not alone. They’ll hear me if I have to scream.
I force myself to get out of the car and walk to my apartment, keys ready in my hand. I separate the sharpest key, the one for my car, and extend it between my fingers to be used as a weapon as I climb the stairs to the second floor. I breathe a sigh of relief when I step through the door and lock it behind me. We’vegotten in the habit of just locking the bottom lock, but I turn the deadbolt and put on the sliding lock before going to the kitchen, where I hear Nina moving around.
Nina is cooking dinner but takes one look at my face and sets down her spoon as she turns off the gas burner before coming closer to me. “What happened?”
