No flowers for the dead - Chapter 6: Chapter 6
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It was raining when the man in the tailored gray suit appeared at the café where Alina once worked.
She hadn’t set foot there in years—long before Elias pulled her out of her simple world and into the orbit of marble floors and private jets. But today, she had come alone, needing something—anything—that felt familiar.
She stirred her tea without drinking it, watching raindrops chase each other down the window. The man sat two tables over. He didn’t order. Didn’t blink. Just watched her.
And when she stood to leave, he stood too.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.
He followed.
Her heart pounded as she turned down a side street, phone clenched in her palm, fingers ready to call Elias. But before she could press the screen, a voice stopped her.
“You should be careful where you go now, Miss Alina.”
She turned, slowly.
The man in gray looked ordinary—forgettable, even. But his smile was polished and dead. “Not everyone is happy about what your lover did.”
She didn’t flinch. “I’m not scared of you.”
“You should be.”
He handed her a white envelope—unmarked—and walked away like he’d just delivered a birthday card.
Alina stared at it, then tore it open with shaking hands.
Inside: a single photo.
Her. Elias. Together on the balcony two nights ago. A grainy shot, but clear enough.
And scrawled in red ink across the bottom:
“The crown demands its heir. Not his whore.”
⸻
By the time Elias arrived at the penthouse that evening, soaked and windblown, Alina was waiting in silence.
He saw the envelope first. Then the photo. Then the look in her eyes.
“They’re threatening you now,” he said, jaw clenched.
“I told you this would happen.”
He walked past her, stripping off his coat, tossing it aside like it had personally betrayed him. “I’ll handle it.”
“How?” she demanded, rising. “You’ve already burned the bridge. You think they’ll let you walk away with their golden name and no consequences?”
He stopped. Turned.
His voice was razor-sharp. “Then let them come. Let them try. I’ve bled for that name. I’ve built their fortune with my bare hands. And I’m done being their puppet.”
She stepped forward, chest heaving. “I don’t care about their money or their name. I care about you staying alive.”
His hands found her shoulders, his touch gentler than his voice. “Then trust me. Just a little longer. I have a plan.”
She wanted to believe him. God, she did. But even belief had limits. And hers were fraying.
Later that night, after he finally fell asleep beside her, she crept into the guest room, opened her laptop, and searched for her old boss’s number. The café owner. The one who’d said, If you ever need somewhere quiet, I still owe you.
She didn’t call.
Not yet.
But her finger hovered over the number for a long, long time.
Because if the empire came for Elias, and he couldn’t stop it—
She would need a place to run.
And no one—not even him—could protect her from a ghost wearing a crown.
She hadn’t set foot there in years—long before Elias pulled her out of her simple world and into the orbit of marble floors and private jets. But today, she had come alone, needing something—anything—that felt familiar.
She stirred her tea without drinking it, watching raindrops chase each other down the window. The man sat two tables over. He didn’t order. Didn’t blink. Just watched her.
And when she stood to leave, he stood too.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.
He followed.
Her heart pounded as she turned down a side street, phone clenched in her palm, fingers ready to call Elias. But before she could press the screen, a voice stopped her.
“You should be careful where you go now, Miss Alina.”
She turned, slowly.
The man in gray looked ordinary—forgettable, even. But his smile was polished and dead. “Not everyone is happy about what your lover did.”
She didn’t flinch. “I’m not scared of you.”
“You should be.”
He handed her a white envelope—unmarked—and walked away like he’d just delivered a birthday card.
Alina stared at it, then tore it open with shaking hands.
Inside: a single photo.
Her. Elias. Together on the balcony two nights ago. A grainy shot, but clear enough.
And scrawled in red ink across the bottom:
“The crown demands its heir. Not his whore.”
⸻
By the time Elias arrived at the penthouse that evening, soaked and windblown, Alina was waiting in silence.
He saw the envelope first. Then the photo. Then the look in her eyes.
“They’re threatening you now,” he said, jaw clenched.
“I told you this would happen.”
He walked past her, stripping off his coat, tossing it aside like it had personally betrayed him. “I’ll handle it.”
“How?” she demanded, rising. “You’ve already burned the bridge. You think they’ll let you walk away with their golden name and no consequences?”
He stopped. Turned.
His voice was razor-sharp. “Then let them come. Let them try. I’ve bled for that name. I’ve built their fortune with my bare hands. And I’m done being their puppet.”
She stepped forward, chest heaving. “I don’t care about their money or their name. I care about you staying alive.”
His hands found her shoulders, his touch gentler than his voice. “Then trust me. Just a little longer. I have a plan.”
She wanted to believe him. God, she did. But even belief had limits. And hers were fraying.
Later that night, after he finally fell asleep beside her, she crept into the guest room, opened her laptop, and searched for her old boss’s number. The café owner. The one who’d said, If you ever need somewhere quiet, I still owe you.
She didn’t call.
Not yet.
But her finger hovered over the number for a long, long time.
Because if the empire came for Elias, and he couldn’t stop it—
She would need a place to run.
And no one—not even him—could protect her from a ghost wearing a crown.
End of No flowers for the dead Chapter 6. Continue reading Chapter 7 or return to No flowers for the dead book page.