"You carry it more beautifully than I expected."
Anastasia said it repeatedly in her head, the words looping like a broken record that refused to find its end.
She stood in the kitchen, her fingers tracing the edge of the cream-colored card.
"You carry it more beautifully than I expected."
The first bouquet of flowers, the red roses delivered days ago had sent a chill through her, but she had managed to push the fear aside.
She had doubted then if it was from Matteo or not. Part of her had wanted it to be him, a sign that he was still watching, still obsessed, still there.
But this second delivery, the white lilies, brought a different kind of certainty.
This wasn't Matteo's style. Matteo didn't send cryptic, poetic riddles, he sent commands.
He didn't whisper from the shadows, he blocked out the sun.
So, what did it mean?
She racked her brain for a face, a name, something she has overheard from Matteo or his men, cause it had to be Matteo's rivals.
