Morning arrived quietly, as if afraid to disturb the house.
Amira hadn't slept much. The white rose lay on her bedside table, its petals bruised, its stem bent where she had gripped it too tightly.
She'd spent the night replaying every sound, every shadow, every word Leonardo had spoken before she went to bed. Be careful. The deeper you dig, the darker it gets.
Now, in the pale wash of dawn, the words felt less like a warning and more like a confession.
She dressed slowly, still half on edge, and went downstairs. The mansion was silent — too silent. The staff hadn't arrived yet, and the smell of last night's storm still clung to the air.
She found Leonardo in the kitchen, standing by the counter with a cup of black coffee. His tie hung loose, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked like he hadn't slept either.
Their eyes met. Neither spoke for a long moment.
"You were up late," she said finally.
"So were you."
She hesitated, then placed the rose on the counter between them. "This was outside my door."
Leonardo's jaw tightened. "Where?"
"Right outside. There was a note."
He picked it up carefully, like evidence. "Who else was in the house last night?"
"No one. Just us and the night staff."
He frowned. "I'll have security review the footage."
"Do you think someone broke in?"
He didn't answer immediately. "Or they never left."
That thought chilled her more than the night air ever could.
She watched as he examined the note again. His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes darkened — that same haunted look she'd seen when he mentioned Elise.
"Leonardo," she said quietly, "do you recognize the handwriting?"
He paused. "No."
But it was a lie. She could tell.
"Don't lie to me."
He looked up sharply, meeting her gaze. "This isn't about lies, Amira. It's about keeping you safe."
"From what? From ghosts? From secrets you refuse to talk about?"
"From the consequences of digging where you shouldn't," he snapped.
The words hit hard.
For a moment, neither moved. Then Leonardo sighed, setting the rose down with a controlled calm that looked like it cost him. "You should get ready. We have a meeting with the board in two hours."
"Of course," she said, voice tight. "Wouldn't want the shareholders to know your wife sleeps with a warning note beside her."
He flinched — barely, but she saw it. Then he turned away. "Amira—"
But she was already walking out.
⸻
The car ride to Rossi International was silent. The city blurred past in streaks of silver and gray, the kind of colorless morning that mirrored the space between them. Leonardo stared out the window, expression unreadable, while Amira sat rigid beside him, clutching her tablet like armor.
The moment they arrived, the professional mask slid back into place. Employees greeted them with polite smiles and whispered speculations, but Leonardo didn't seem to notice. He was already back in control — the CEO, not the man who left roses at midnight.
Amira wasn't sure which version of him frightened her more.
⸻
By midmorning, the boardroom was full. Men in suits, women with sharp eyes and sharper words, all gathered around the long glass table. Leonardo stood at the head, delivering updates on mergers and expansion projects. His tone was smooth, confident — every inch the man who could bend markets with a sentence.
Amira took notes, pretending to focus, but her mind kept drifting. She couldn't stop glancing at him. The way his hand moved when he gestured. The slight twitch of his jaw when someone mentioned "leaked documents."
He noticed her watching. For half a second, their eyes met — and the tension that hummed between them from last night came roaring back.
She looked away quickly.
When the meeting ended, Leonardo dismissed everyone except her. The room emptied until only the two of them remained, the air suddenly heavier.
"You're distracted," he said.
"So are you."
He walked toward her, slow and deliberate. "You're still thinking about the rose."
"I'm thinking about who left it."
"Maybe it doesn't matter."
"Everything matters when someone breaks into your home."
He stopped a few feet away. "You really think I'd let someone hurt you?"
"I don't know what to think anymore," she admitted. "You keep hiding things. I don't even know what part of your life is real."
He stared at her for a long moment. "You think I planted that rose?"
"I don't know," she whispered. "But I know it wasn't there when I went to sleep."
Something flickered across his face — hurt, anger, guilt. "I would never scare you like that."
"But you'd lie to me to protect yourself," she shot back.
His silence was an answer.
Then, finally, he said quietly, "The handwriting on that note… it looked like Elise's."
Her breath caught. "That's impossible."
"Yes." His voice was low. "Impossible. But true."
He turned away, gripping the edge of the table. "After she died, some of her things went missing — journals, letters. I assumed they were taken by the investigators, but what if someone kept them?"
Amira felt the chill crawl up her spine. "And now they're sending you reminders."
He nodded once. "Or warnings."
She stepped closer. "Leonardo… what really happened to her?"
He looked up at her then — eyes dark, tired, full of something between confession and torment. "They said it was an accident. But I never believed that."
"Why?"
"Because Elise was careful. Too careful. She never drove at night, never drank, never took risks. But the night she died, she was on the highway alone. Heading toward the same town Daniel Hale disappeared in."
Amira's pulse quickened. "You think he—"
"I think she was going to meet him," he said quietly. "And I think whatever happened that night didn't end with her."
The room felt colder suddenly.
"Then whoever sent that note…"
"…knows the truth," Leonardo finished.
Their eyes locked — and in that shared silence, something shifted. Not just fear. Trust. Fragile, bruised trust.
"Let me help you," Amira said softly.
He shook his head. "You already have too much to lose."
"I'm already in this, Leonardo. Whether you like it or not."
For a moment, his control cracked — just enough for her to see the man beneath the armor. The one who was terrified of losing again.
Then he stepped closer. "You don't understand what danger means in my world."
"Then show me."
It was a challenge — and he heard it.
His breath hitched slightly, his eyes dropping to her lips before he forced himself back. "You should go back to your desk."
"I'm not leaving until you tell me everything."
His hand brushed against hers — not a command, not a plea, just a silent connection that said more than words could. "Careful, Amira," he murmured. "You're starting to sound like someone who loves me."
Her heart stuttered. "Maybe I do."
For a second, neither moved. Then he turned abruptly and walked out, leaving her with the ghost of her own confession.
⸻
That evening, Amira stayed late again. She couldn't focus, not after what he'd said. Maybe I do. The words kept looping in her head, soft and dangerous.
She was packing up when a message popped on her screen: CONFIDENTIAL: E. ROSSI ARCHIVES — no sender, no subject line.
Her hands shook as she opened it. Inside was a single scanned page — a journal entry written in looping cursive:
"He said he'd tell Leonardo everything. I can't let that happen. If I disappear, it won't be by accident."
No signature. But it was dated two days before Elise's death.
Amira's blood ran cold.
She grabbed her phone, dialing Leonardo's number — but before she could hit call, his office door opened.
He stood there, looking at her, and she saw it instantly — he already knew.
"You got the message too," she said.
He nodded slowly. "Someone wants us to read it."
"Then they're watching us."
"Yes." His gaze flicked to the window. "Which means we're running out of time."
He walked toward her, every step deliberate. When he stopped in front of her, he spoke softly but firmly. "From now on, you don't go anywhere alone. Not home, not work. You understand?"
She nodded, pulse racing.
"And Amira," he added, his voice dropping lower, "no matter what you hear about Elise — you come to me first."
"I don't know if I can promise that," she said honestly.
He gave a small, bitter smile. "Then I'll just have to make you trust me."
The tension between them snapped again — not anger this time, but something more dangerous. His hand brushed a strand of hair from her face, lingering just a second too long.
"You shouldn't look at me like that," he said quietly.
"Like what?"
"Like you still believe I'm worth saving."
Her voice trembled. "Maybe I do."
He closed his eyes briefly, as if the words physically hurt him. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there with the glow of the monitor painting shadows across her face.
When she looked back at the screen, the file was gone. Deleted. No trace left — not even in the history.
Only one line remained in her memory: If I disappear, it won't be by accident.
And as she stared at the dark window, her reflection flickering against the city lights, Amira realized she wasn't afraid anymore. She was determined.
Because somewhere between the lies, the grief, and the danger, she had already chosen a side.
And that side was Leonardo's — even if it meant uncovering the kind of truth that could destroy them both.