‼️This chapter contains depictions of emotional distress, self-harm, and scenes involving blood. It may be triggering for some readers. Please read with discretion and take care of your mental well-being.‼️
Chapter 17 – The Blood on the Flowers
The silence in his study wasn't just quiet—it was haunting. The kind of stillness that reminded Rayden Lancaster why he hated coming home too early or staying up too late.
Anne was probably asleep in her room, and the entire penthouse bathed in the soft hum of the city lights beneath the glass windows. But Rayden wasn't looking at the view tonight. He sat behind his desk, one hand supporting his head, the other flipping through the old file he had once requested from Brian.
Anne.
Her photo was clipped at the top corner—no makeup, no fancy dress. Just her, standing in front of what looked like a dim office entrance, clutching a document folder. Her eyes looked tired. Cautious. But undeniably sincere.
Rayden's lips pressed into a line.
He'd asked Brian to do a thorough background check before offering her the contract. Not because he suspected she was dangerous, but because… something about her felt different. And he needed to be sure.
The report was simple: Orphaned young. Raised by an uncle with a gambling problem. Worked two part-time jobs to pay for pay her father's debt. No record of scandals. No known lovers. No criminal background. She had nothing to gain, yet everything to lose.
And she had said yes to his absurd contract.
Rayden leaned back, letting the file fall shut with a soft thump.
What the hell are you, Anne?
She wasn't like the others. She wasn't like… her.
Blair.
As if summoned by her name, the image of that house returned to his mind. Not this cold penthouse. Not the apartment Anne used to stay in. But that house—the one with colorful curtains, mismatched cushions, and the faint smell of cinnamon candles.
The place he used to call home.
———
Seven years ago.
"Rayden?" Blair's voice echoed softly from the kitchen. "You're back early."
He had just stepped inside, tossing his keys onto the small wooden bowl by the door. His suit jacket hung casually on his shoulder. "Board meeting ended early."
Blair peeked out, a smile on her face, her apron dusted with flour. "Perfect. I made cinnamon rolls."
He gave her a faint smile. "You're always baking."
"Because you never eat properly," she teased, wiping her hands on the apron before approaching him.
Blair. Sweet, caring, kind. Too kind for someone like him, maybe.
Their relationship had started quietly—Blair, the bright-eyed art school graduate, working part-time at a cafe where Rayden would escape for coffee. She didn't recognize his name. Didn't know he was a Lancaster. That was the appeal.
She offered peace in a world that was constantly loud for him.
That's why he stayed.
But Blair wanted a version of him that didn't exist. The romantic. The poetic. The broken boy who could be healed with love.
She didn't understand that some people were meant to stay broken.
But Blair who continued to love Rayden alone for 2 years finally broke down. She wanted to get more. Or at least equal.
Then one night, she begged him to say he loved her—he couldn't even fake it.
"Just lie to me," she had whispered, tears soaking his shirt. "Tell me you love me, just once."
He couldn't. He wouldn't.
And in that silence, she fell apart.
———
And there's another night Rayden couldn't forget.
He still remembered the smell of blood—so thick and metallic it clung to the air.
Rayden pushed open the house door, already sensing something wrong.
"Blair?"
Silence.
Then he saw her.
She was kneeling on the carpet, dress soaked in blood, a kitchen knife trembling in her hand.
His heart dropped. "Blair?! What did you do?!"
She looked up at him, eyes glazed with madness and pain. "I won't let them take you."
"What are you talking about? Put the knife down!"
"They said you're marrying her," she spat. "That heiress. Kayla Westley. They're replacing me!"
"It's a business deal," he said quickly. "It means nothing—"
"It means you're gone!"
She lunged.
They struggled. The knife caught him in the side. A sharp, white-hot pain burst through him. He gasped, stumbling back.
Blair froze, horror dawning in her expression.
"Oh God. Rayden. No. I didn't mean to—"
"Blair. Stop. We'll get help—"
Before he could stop her, she turned the blade toward herself and pressed down.
A sickening thud. Then silence.
And Rayden, could only watch as the life drained out of her eyes.
———
The hospital. Two days later.
Rayden was still recovering. His side stitched. His blood replaced. But the guilt? That stayed.
Eleanor sat beside his hospital bed, hands folded tightly.
She didn't cry.
She didn't yell.
She simply stared at the wall for a long time, before saying, "What did I said? That low girl is not safe for you."
Rayden turned away. "Don't."
"She came from nothing, Rayden. Broken people break things."
"You don't know her—"
"I know enough." Her voice sharpened. "You almost died. And for what? For some unstable girl who couldn't handle you?"
Rayden's eyes burned, but not from tears. From rage. From helplessness.
"I've covered this case. Do you know what the media is saying?"
Yes. Rayden knows. Brian shows some of the media reactions to this incident.
"Tragic love story ends in murder-suicide."
"COO of Swiss & Wellington allegedly stabs girlfriend in heated altercation."
The truth didn't matter.
"I paid a man to act as the intruder. Changed the narrative to a botched robbery. Worked with the police, the press, the justice system. You just need to behave."
And it worked. The world moved on.
But Rayden never did.
He still had the scar—just under his ribs. And the nightmares.
Anne's voice echoed in his head, from just a few days ago.
"What scandal?"
Rayden's hand clenched into a fist.
If she knew… if anyone really knew what had happened that night, what he had allowed to happen… would she still be here?
Would she still sit across from him during dinner, awkward but warm, careful but kind?
He doubted it.
He looked down at the photo again—Anne's tired eyes, her tight smile.
She was nothing like Blair. And maybe that's why he felt… safe. Like he wouldn't repeat the same mistake.
But love?
No.
That's not what this was.
This—what he had with Anne—was transactional. A contract. A shared secret. Something they could control.
Right?
Deep inside Rayden scared to death.
He remembered the incident where Anne almost jumped off the bridge. She's unstable. Just like Blair.
But the difference is, Anne is not longing for love. She needs money and secure. And that can be provided by Rayden.
Anne doesn't look like a woman who cares about love. And that makes him grateful.
But strangely, he is the one who always thinks about Anne. Always worried about Anne.
Is this because Anne reminds him a little of Blair?
Rayden leaned back, closing his eyes.
He could still smell the cinnamon.
Still hear the knife clatter to the floor.
Still see Blair's lifeless eyes staring up at him, asking him why he never loved her.
And he still didn't have an answer.