{"id":258522,"date":"2026-07-13T16:20:02","date_gmt":"2026-07-13T13:20:02","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/dons-flower-amanda-horton\/"},"modified":"2026-07-13T16:20:02","modified_gmt":"2026-07-13T13:20:02","slug":"dons-flower-amanda-horton","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/dons-flower-amanda-horton\/","title":{"rendered":"Dons Flower – Amanda Horton"},"content":{"rendered":"
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She lights up when she sees me, like I\u2019m not a guest but part of the routine now. She straightens and waves me over, already talking. \u201cSee these?\u201d she asks, gesturing at a row of roses. \u201cThey finally took. I had to adjust the soil mix\u2014more drainage, less nitrogen. They were sulking.\u201d I lean in, smiling. \u201cDrama queens.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe worst,\u201d she agrees cheerfully. \u201cThese ones still need time. And don\u2019t even get me started on the aphids. I won that war, but it got bloody.\u201d 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.<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt suits you.\u201d I laugh despite myself, fingers brushing the petals. \u201cYou\u2019re going to get me in trouble.\u201d \u201cWith who?\u201d she asks. “A single bud won’t be missed. These roses are basically all going to the west wing anyway.” \u201cThe west wing?\u201d Lara pulls that face people make when they realize they’ve said too much. \u201cYeah, no biggie. Anyway, I should get back to work,\u201d she says too quickly.<\/p>\n

\u201cMulch waits for no one.\u201d 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\u2019s nothing. That people are entitled to privacy. That I promised not to go there and I intend to keep that promise.<\/p>\n

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\u2019t need imagination so much as silence to survive. I stop walking.<\/p>\n

No. That\u2019s absurd. That\u2019s fear talking, feeding on isolation and too much time to think. Matteo may be many things, but he\u2019s not that. He\u2019s careful. Controlled. Kind, in his own way.<\/p>\n

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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.<\/p>\n

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 \u2019ve 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.<\/p>\n

It only mean one thing\u2014she\u2019s noticed I haven\u2019t touched alcohol in weeks, even though she\u2019s never pointed it out. She\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve 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\u2019s been threatening to collapse all night. She keeps glancing at me in the reflection of the mirror behind the bottles. \u201cYou know,\u201d she says casually, \u201cnormal people don\u2019t treat mocktails like life rafts.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m hydrating,\u201d I insist. \u201cIt\u2019s a lifestyle.\u201d 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\u2014\u201cwhite night\u201d\u2014is supposed to be a place that never sleeps, but cloaked in class.<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

Not that anyone here would understand a jab in flower language.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.<\/em><\/p>\n

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