The post-birthday calm had settled over the penthouse like a soft blanket. A stray piece of green dragon-cake glitter was found behind a sofa cushion. Anya's new toys were integrated into the landscape of our home. The world felt orderly, safe.
I was at the opera house, in my office, the morning light slanting across the polished surface of my desk. It was a Tuesday. Ava was at her agency, immersed in a complex financial trail. Anya was at her exclusive, hyper-secure preschool—a fortress in its own right, staffed with people whose backgrounds Viktor had vetted down to their kindergarten teachers.
I was reviewing the architectural plans for a new community center, a legitimate project that brought me a quiet, different kind of satisfaction. Then, my assistant brought in the day's physical mail. Usually, it was just charity galas and business solicitations. On top of the stack was a plain, cream-colored envelope. No return address. My name was written in an elegant, old-fashioned cursive.
A flicker of unease. No one sent me personal mail here anymore.
I picked up my silver letter opener and slit the top. Inside was a single sheet of heavy, textured paper. The words were not typed. They were written in the same elegant script, in dark blue ink that looked almost black.
It was a poem.
The rose, they say, has many thorns,
A crimson crown where hope is worn.
She guards a bloom of softer hue,
A morning light, a sparkling dew.
But what's a rose without its light?
A shadow lost to endless night.
The dew is gone, the morning fled,
A whispered word, a silent dread.
The garden path is empty now,
No childish laugh, no earnest vow.
Just petals falling, one by one,
Beneath a cold and silent sun.
The words didn't process as meaning at first. They were just ink, an aesthetic affectation. Then, they coalesced.
Rose. Crimson crown. Me.
A bloom of softer hue. Morning light. Anya.
The dew is gone. The morning fled.
The garden path is empty now.
No childish laugh.
Ice water flooded my veins. My heart gave one violent, thunderous kick against my ribs, then seemed to stop altogether.
No childish laugh.
This wasn't a threat. It was a report.
My hands, usually so steady, trembled. The paper fluttered to the desk. I was on my feet before my mind could form a coherent thought, the chair screeching back violently. The roar in my ears was deafening.
I snatched my phone. My first call was to Viktor, my fingers slipping on the screen.
He answered on the first ring. "Don Rossi?"
"The school," I choked out, my voice a stranger's. "Check Anya. Now. Go yourself. Now!"
I didn't wait for his response. I hung up and called Ava. It rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Voicemail. "Ava. Call me. Immediately." My voice was brittle, breaking.
I called the direct line to Anya's head teacher, a woman named Ms. Ellery. Ring. Ring. Ring. No answer.
I called the school's main office. A receptionist answered, her voice cheerful. "Greenwood Academy, how may I—"
"Put me through to Anya Rossi-Sterling's classroom. Now."
"I'm sorry, who is—?"
"THIS IS LING ROSSI. PUT ME THROUGH NOW OR I WILL BURN YOUR FUCKING SCHOOL TO THE GROUND!" The scream tore from my throat, raw and terrifying. The line went silent for a second, then there was a click, and the hold music—a tinkling, insipid lullaby—filled my ear.
I stood there, paralyzed, the phone pressed to my ear, the lullaby a mocking horror soundtrack. The poem's lines burned behind my eyes. The dew is gone. The morning fled.
My phone buzzed. Viktor.
I answered, a silent plea.
"Don Rossi." His voice was grim, hollow. "She's not here. The teacher… Ms. Ellery. She's in the nurse's office. She was found unconscious in the supply closet. She's coming around. She said a man, a substitute aide she didn't recognize… he took Anya for a 'special art project' an hour ago. They didn't question it. Security cameras on that wing have a twenty-minute gap. They're… scrambled."
The world dissolved into a roaring, white noise. The floor tilted. I gripped the edge of the desk, my knuckles bone-white.
Gone.
They had taken my daughter.
The poem was real. The garden path was empty.
My Alpha scent, usually a controlled weapon, exploded from me in a violent, suffocating wave of rose and pure, undiluted panic. It was the scent of a predator whose cub had been stolen.
I heard myself make a sound—a low, animal growl of anguish that vibrated in the silent office.
"Ava," I gasped into the phone. "I can't reach Ava."
"I'll find her," Viktor said, his voice a promise of vengeance. "I'll call Leo. We will tear this city apart."
I hung up. I looked at the poem on my desk. This wasn't a ransom note. It was a gloat. A piece of art to commemorate their victory.
The rose, they say, has many thorns. They thought my thorns were my power. They were wrong. My thorns were nothing. The bloom was everything. And they had taken it.
The Don was gone. The strategist was gone. All that was left was a primal, screaming void where my heart had been. They had not started a war.
They had ended the world.
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To my readers that have been waiting for the next chapter I am truly sorry for the long wait and didn't give any notice for my absence about my novels. Thank you all for supporting me and I will try my best to give you guys my writing