Mateo Lopez was found dead in his penthouse bathroom at exactly 7:06 a.m.
The housekeeper, shaking and pale, had opened the door to find him slumped against the marble tub, mouth open, eyes glassy. The police ruled it as cardiac arrest.
No signs of a struggle. No forced entry. No witnesses.
And no trace of poison.
Esme had been very careful.
---
She'd delivered the arrangement just after sunrise.
A custom bouquet in a gunmetal gray box. Sleek. Masculine. Wrapped in silk ribbon the color of old bruises.
Inside: orchids, violets, and one pale lily, its petals dusted with micro-extracts from the roots of gloriosa superba. Refined. Tasteless. Fatal.
The note card read simply:
"To the men who forget they're being watched."
She hadn't stayed to watch him open it.
Some deaths didn't need applause.
——————————————————
Liam sat at his desk, staring at the paused footage.
The gala security tapes had been a pain to request, but being a suspended detective with a reputation for disobedience had its perks—namely, people stopped expecting you to follow rules.
He'd gone over the crowd shots three times already.
Silas Dorne laughing. Dorne whispering something to a senator. Dorne making a joke to a woman in a gold mask. Nothing illegal. Nothing useful.
Except—
There. Frame 02:15:36.
Her.
Esme.
Dancing with him.
He leaned closer to the screen, jaw tightening. Even grainy and distant, he knew it was her. Knew the curve of her neck, the way her hands floated just slightly before settling into contact, like she was always giving herself a chance to disappear.
Liam rubbed a hand over his face.
This wasn't evidence. It wasn't even suspicion.
It was memory.
And that was the problem.
——————————————————
He hadn't stopped thinking about her since the gala.
Not because he thought she was guilty.
But because he hadn't felt that... pulled in a long time.
There was something in the way she looked at him—as if she saw more than she was supposed to, and didn't flinch. Something in the way she let him touch her waist and didn't run.
He should've tailed her. Or at least questioned her.
But instead, he danced with her.
And when she walked away, he'd debated whether he should follow her or not, and decided on the former.
He'd seen her in a very questionable situation, but she'd slipped away before he even had the chance to question.
——————————————————
Liam leaned back in his chair and opened the report on Mateo Lopez's death.
Nothing strange in the tox screen.
But then again, gloriosa was metabolized quickly. Especially in a body like Mateo's—young, fit, artificially optimized. He'd detoxed his system so hard, it made poisons harder to trace.
Except the heart still told the truth.
And Mateo's had stopped, cold.
——————————————————
Liam turned back to the footage.
Esme was laughing in this frame. Barely. A flicker of something soft.
He watched it on loop.
Not because he needed proof.
But because he just couldn't stop.
——————————————————
Meanwhile — Esme sat in her greenhouse, sketching.
The window was open a crack. Rain had started. A soft mist curling over the glass.
The page beneath her pencil was filled with overlapping petals. Not realistic. Not botanical.
Just shapes. Fractures. Parts of a bloom that never fully opened.
She was tired.
Mateo had been the fifth. But not the last.
And it hadn't satisfied her.
His death was clean. Neat. Quick. Too quick.
But the memory of the girl in the alley—that had stayed.
So Esme kept going. Because if she stopped, the weight of the quiet might bury her.
Her phone buzzed.
No name. No message.
Just an image.
Of her.
From the gala.
Esme froze.
The image was grainy, but she recognized herself. Mid-spin. Gloved hand brushing Liam's lapel. Mask tilted slightly.
No caption. No threat.
Just the knowledge that someone else had eyes.
Someone was watching her watching him.
Esme closed the message. Deleted it. Then locked the phone in a drawer.
——————————————————
Later that night — Liam sat alone in his apartment.
The walls were closing in.
Not literally—but emotionally.
He kept hearing Esme's voice in his head.
Are you here for me?
He should've said yes.
He wasn't even sure she was guilty anymore.
Or maybe he was just trying to rationalize what he wanted to believe.
He poured himself a glass of bourbon, sat on the couch, and pulled the case file for Helena Levine back into his lap.
The name still stung.
Esme's mother.
The woman once accused of being the original Thorn.
And now her daughter was dancing in the shadows of those same crimes.
But Liam didn't want to see her that way.
He remembered how warm her hand had been in his.
How real her eyes felt when she said nothing at all.
And that terrified him more than any blood trail.
——————————————————
He flipped open a sealed envelope from the old evidence locker.
Inside: A note Helena had written near the end. Rambling. Scribbled.
They won't stop watching her. Even if I die, they'll still watch. Like gardeners waiting for bloom or rot.
Liam stared at it.
He didn't know if Esme was guilty.
But he knew what it felt like to be watched.
And suddenly he wasn't sure if he was the hunter anymore.
Or the bait.