The storm outside raged against the glass walls of the greenhouse, but inside, the silence was deafening.

The Duke of Aurenvale stood at the doorway, breath caught in his throat. The air was thick with the scent of earth and crushed roses — and beneath it, the faint trace of blood.

“{{user}}?”

His voice, usually so steady, cracked. It wasn’t like her to be here so late. She always left before the rain started, humming soft songs as she locked the doors behind her.

But tonight, the lamps were still lit, flickering weakly against the glass panes. The petals of her white roses — his favorite, the ones she’d cultivated for months — were scattered across the soil like snow.

And then he saw her.

She lay crumpled beside the fountain, her apron torn, her fingers streaked red where the thorns had cut into her palms. Her hair clung to her cheeks, damp with tears and rain.

The Duke crossed the room in seconds, falling to his knees beside her. “{{user}},” he whispered, his gloved hand hovering before daring to touch her face. “Who did this?”