Dons Flower – Amanda Horton

She lights up when she sees me, like I’m not a guest but part of the routine now. She straightens and waves me over, already talking. “See these?” she asks, gesturing at a row of roses. “They finally took. I had to adjust the soil mix—more drainage, less nitrogen. They were sulking.” I lean in, smiling. “Drama queens.”

“The worst,” she agrees cheerfully. “These ones still need time. And don’t even get me started on the aphids. I won that war, but it got bloody.” We drift from bed to bed, talking pruning angles, soil balance, how much sun is too much before leaves start to scorch. The conversation flows easily, like it always does when two nerds realize they share the same incredibly specific obsession. In our case, anything green and leafy.

She ducks into the greenhouse and comes back with a small rosebud, deep red and just beginning to open. “This one broke. It’s such a pity.” Then her eyes light up. “Hey, can I?” Without waiting for a reply, she tucks the bud into my hair, just behind my ear. Her face breaks into a grin.

“It suits you.” I laugh despite myself, fingers brushing the petals. “You’re going to get me in trouble.” “With who?” she asks. “A single bud won’t be missed. These roses are basically all going to the west wing anyway.” “The west wing?” Lara pulls that face people make when they realize they’ve said too much. “Yeah, no biggie. Anyway, I should get back to work,” she says too quickly.

“Mulch waits for no one.” She bustles off before I can press, leaving me standing there with the rosebud in my hair and a knot forming low in my stomach. Flowers going to the west wing. Why would the west wing need flowers? The thought sticks with me longer than it should. I tell myself it’s nothing. That people are entitled to privacy. That I promised not to go there and I intend to keep that promise.

Still, as I wander the paths alone afterward, my gaze drifts back toward the house. Toward the part of it that stays closed. And for the first time since I arrived, curiosity edges dangerously close to worry. My brain, unhelpful as always, immediately supplies worst-case scenarios. A modern Bertha-in-the-attic situation, minus the gothic romance and plus a very real crime podcast vibe. I picture pale faces, barred windows, the kind of horror that doesn’t need imagination so much as silence to survive. I stop walking.

No. That’s absurd. That’s fear talking, feeding on isolation and too much time to think. Matteo may be many things, but he’s not that. He’s careful. Controlled. Kind, in his own way.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Formatted with Vellum OceanofPDF.com CONTENTS 1. Rose 2. Matteo 3. Rose 4. Matteo 5. Rose 6. Matteo 7. Rose 8. Matteo 9. Rose 10. Matteo 11. Rose 12. Matteo 13.

Rose 14. Matteo 15. Rose 16. Matteo 17. Rose 18. Matteo 19. Rose 20. Matteo 21. Rose 22. Matteo 23. Rose Epilogue: Matteo Epilogue: Rose OceanofPDF.com I 1 ROSE ’ve been nursing the same mocktail for the last forty minutes. Cranberry, lime, soda. Heavy on the ice, whose cubes are starting to shrink and light on everything else. Amber had made it without asking.

It only mean one thing—she’s noticed I haven’t touched alcohol in weeks, even though she’s never pointed it out. She’s good at that. I take a glance around. The bar is almost empty. Last call has come and gone. The lights are lower and the music softer. It feels like the restaurant itself is getting ready for bed. I stay perched on the stool anyway, elbows tucked in, knees crossed, bag looped around my ankle.

I’ve timed my breathing to the rhythm of the room. It helps. Across the bar from me, Amber wipes the counter in slow, lazy circles, her hair pulled into a messy bun that’s been threatening to collapse all night. She keeps glancing at me in the reflection of the mirror behind the bottles. “You know,” she says casually, “normal people don’t treat mocktails like life rafts.”

“I’m hydrating,” I insist. “It’s a lifestyle.” One of my flower arrangements sits tastefully behind her, in a designated spot on the counter. Tonight, the protagonists are red hyacinths and black dahlias. Playing with fire. A little private joke on the nature of this place. Notte Bianca—“white night”—is supposed to be a place that never sleeps, but cloaked in class.

Respectable. Innocent, like most white flowers, on the surface. But what happens here every night is anything but innocent. The cream of the crop of New York City gathers here, elites and CEOs and socialites with money to throw out their expensive windowed walls in the sky above Manhattan. Here, deals are made that secure billions in the pockets of the same elected few every night.

Not that anyone here would understand a jab in flower language.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: 5129c827b6b1c1ed
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 2,147,606 bytes (2.048 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 112
• Language: English (en)

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• Total Words: 29,728
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