Blood and Roses

Manhattan - 11:47 p.m.

The rain came down like the city was bleeding.

Sheets of it painted the pavement in dark streaks, soaking silk dresses and expensive shoes, washing away the sins of Wall Street under the cold watch of a midnight sky. Neon lights flickered in puddles, but inside The Red Room, everything glowed with decadence.

It was a place meant for the untouchable. Hidden beneath a jazz club, it was where billionaires went when they wanted anonymity, indulgence, and a little bit of sin. You didn't just walk into The Red Room. You had to be invited. Vetted. Proven. Or be too beautiful to ignore.

Isla Marquette had no invitation.

But she had the look of someone who belonged. That red silk dress? Sin personified. Her full lips, her long legs, the sharp tilt of her chin? Power wrapped in vulnerability. She didn't know what she was looking for that night-but she was tired of being invisible.

And that's when she felt the heat of his gaze.

Across the smoky, dim-lit room, Damien Blackwood watched her like a man watching a fire. Unmoving. Silent. Devouring.

He leaned against the back of a velvet booth, drink untouched, navy suit clinging to every lean muscle on his six-foot-three frame. A jawline carved from marble. Eyes like ash and winter steel. He was a name whispered behind closed doors. A tycoon. A king. A man with ice in his veins-until she walked in.

He tilted his head, intrigued.

She returned his gaze, defiant.

Then, slowly, she smiled.

12:03 a.m.

"You're not subtle," Isla said as she approached, heels clicking softly on polished floors.

Damien's lips curved. "Neither are you."

"Is that a compliment or a warning?"

"Depends." He raised a brow, gaze dropping to the curve of her hip. "Are you dangerous?"

She leaned in, scent of roses and bourbon on her breath. "Only if crossed."

He gestured to the booth. "Join me."

She slid in, folding her legs like poetry. "You always invite strange women to your table?"

"No," Damien said honestly. "But you're not strange. You're... familiar."

She blinked, thrown for a moment. "We've met?"

"No," he murmured, "but it feels like we should have."

12:36 a.m.

The conversation was sharp, fast, and layered with flirtation.

They talked about books, bad habits, and the madness of New York. Isla didn't tell him she was a paralegal buried under debt. She didn't tell him she lived in a Brooklyn walk-up with mold in the ceiling and dreams rotting in her desk drawer. She wanted to be someone else tonight.

And for some reason, with him, she was.

"Come with me," he said softly, brushing her hand with his.

She hesitated. The moment hung between them-fragile, glittering, dangerous.

But Isla nodded.

Damien stood and took her hand, weaving through the crowd like a man with purpose.

And when the elevator doors closed behind them, the silence turned heavy with promise.

1:02 a.m. - Blackwood Penthouse

The world outside was drowning in rain, but the penthouse was warm.

All steel and black marble, floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the living room like the edge of the world. Isla stood barefoot, her heels discarded near the door, red dress clinging damply to her skin. Damien stood behind her, watching her reflection in the glass.

"You live in the clouds," she said, voice soft.

He stepped closer. "And you're not afraid of heights?"

"I'm afraid of falling."

Damien's hand found her waist, sliding the silk strap off her shoulder. "Then don't fall."

She turned to him slowly. "What if it's already too late?"

Their mouths collided.

The kiss was chaos. His hands were in her hair, hers on his chest, ripping buttons, pulling, pressing. She moaned into his mouth as he lifted her onto the kitchen counter, knocked over a bowl of black cherries, and slid her dress over her thighs.

There was no music-but their bodies moved in rhythm. His mouth found her neck, her gasp filled the room, and the marble under her back was cold-until he was all heat and hunger and promise.

3:19 a.m.

She lay beneath him, breathless, eyes half-closed.

Damien hovered above her, arms braced, heart thundering like war drums. "Tell me your name."

She smiled lazily. "Why?"

"I want to remember."

Isla hesitated. Then whispered, "Isla."

"Isla..." he echoed, tasting the name.

She reached up and touched his cheek, and for one terrifying second, it didn't feel like a one-night stand.

It felt like a beginning.

4:44 a.m.

Isla stood by the window, wrapped in one of his shirts, phone glowing in her hand.

A message.

Unknown Number: Heard you're back in town. You can't hide forever, Isla.

She dropped the phone like it burned her.

Damien stirred in bed. "You okay?"

She swallowed hard. "Yeah. Just... got cold."

He frowned. "Come back to bed."

She did.

But sleep never came.

6:30 a.m.

She was gone.

Damien sat up in bed, staring at the imprint she left behind. A faint scent of roses lingered on the pillow.

On the kitchen counter: a sticky note.

> Thank you for not asking me to stay.

– Isla

No last name. No number. No trace.

Damien stared at it for a long time.

And for the first time in years, he felt the burn of frustration and longing.

Three Weeks Later - Blackwood Towers

"Mr. Blackwood?" his assistant knocked softly. "You have... a delivery."

He barely looked up. "Put it with the others."

"It's not a package. It's an envelope. Marked private. She said you'd want to see it."

Damien finally looked. "She?"

The assistant nodded. "A woman. Red hair. Asked me not to give her name. Just this."

She handed him the envelope and left.

He opened it.

A note.

> Damien-

I didn't know how to say this face-to-face. I didn't think I'd see you again. But you deserve to know.

I'm pregnant.

It's yours.

– Isla

His vision blurred.

He read it again. And again.

Then something else slid from the envelope.

A black-and-white photo.

Tiny. Blurry.

An ultrasound.

Two Days Later - Brooklyn

He found the building through sheer force of will.

His security team had traced her phone, hacked a half-dozen club cameras, bribed a doorman. Finally, he stood at her door.

The townhouse was narrow, ivy crawling up the side. Roses bloomed wildly in front-red, almost violently so.

He knocked.

No answer.

Knocked again, harder.

The door opened a crack.

Isla stared at him, barefoot in a faded T-shirt, eyes wide, cheeks pale.

"You shouldn't be here," she said immediately.

"You ran. You lied. And you think I'd just disappear?"

She tried to shut the door.

He pushed inside.

"You don't get to vanish after telling me I'm going to be a father," Damien growled.

She flinched. "I didn't vanish. I protected myself."

"From what?" he demanded. "From me?"

"No," she whispered. "From him."

"Who?"

The name clawed out of her throat. "Brandon."

Damien froze. "Who the hell is Brandon?"

"My ex," Isla said, voice trembling. "He was... abusive. Controlling. He tracked me. Hurt me. I filed a restraining order. It didn't stop him."

Damien's entire body turned to stone.

"And if he finds out I'm pregnant-if he finds out it's yours-he'll come after me again."

"I'll kill him," Damien said instantly, voice like gravel.

"No," she choked. "That's what he wants. For you to lash out. For me to be afraid."

Damien reached for her. "You're not alone anymore."

Before she could answer-glass shattered upstairs.

Isla screamed.

Bootsteps.

Heavy. Slow. Coming down the stairs.

Her eyes widened in terror.

"He found me," she whispered, shaking.

Damien pulled her behind him just as the intruder stepped into the hall.

Tall. Hooded. A gun visible beneath the coat.

The man smiled. "Miss me, Isla?"

Damien's hands curled into fists. "You have five seconds to get the hell out of here."

The man pulled the gun.

"Too late."