The moment the plane wheels touched the New York runway, I felt something inside me unclench.
Home.
Or… whatever still counted as home.
Paris had been beautiful — a blur of meetings, endless coffee, and polite smiles. I’d gotten the deal, signed the contract, smiled for pictures, and told everyone I was fine. But deep down, I wasn’t sure what “fine” even meant anymore.
Still, breathing in the New York air now — sharp, cold, familiar — made me feel like I could start again. Like maybe, I could leave behind the scent of roses that still haunted me.
The memory hit me the moment I stepped into the terminal — that hotel room, those blood-red petals, that message from a man I couldn’t name. I had tried to convince myself it was a harmless gesture, but even now, my skin prickled just thinkin
