"Pierre, would you mind fucking off?" Delancie said in sharp French that even Frida could understand. She shot him a glare, and Pierre smirked, unfazed.
He pulled a sleek card from his pocket, offering it to Frida. "I would appreciate so of your ti, Miss Frida, if you don’t mind. You are... breathtakingly beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that you leave utterly speechless."
Frida shifted uncomfortably in her seat, clutching her phone like she might speed-dial Laz at any mont.
"Do I need to repeat myself, Pierre?" Delancie snapped.
Pierre grinned, his salt-and-pepper hair and warm grey eyes lending him an air of charm. Despite his age, he was undeniably handso, but there was sothing unnervingly familiar about him—sothing that made Frida’s stomach churn.
He finally turned his attention back to Delancie, his smirk growing. "I’m leaving, little niece. You’re just as feisty as your mother," he said smoothly.
As he glanced at Frida once more, his eyes lingered, raking over her in a way that sent chills down her spine. "Did he receive my little gift?"
Frida arched a brow, confused. There was no way this man could know her—or Laz, for that matter. She straightened, mustering a confident smile, assuming the question was directed at Delancie.
Pierre chuckled, turning his back on them. "Tell Laz I’m coming to take what’s mine," he said, his voice dripping with quiet nace.
Frida’s breath hitched. Her hands trembled as she swallowed the lump of fear rising in her throat.
What did he an by "what’s mine"?
Was he the one who sent the roses?
Before she could collect herself, he was already gone.
"Frida, is sothing wrong?" Delancie asked, her brows furrowing.
Frida stared at her, her voice shaking. "Do you know who that man is?"
Delancie frowned. "He’s my uncle."
Frida’s chest heaved, her hands trembling as a wave of dread washed over her. "I feel like... I know him," she whispered, her voice barely audible. And he’s done horrible things to , she thought, the mory leaving a cold shiver in its wake.
Delancie’s expression turned grim. "Well, he’s one of our many enemies. But first things first—do you know about the Red Notes? Because if you don’t, you have no business being here."
Frida nodded slowly, her voice steadier now. "Yes, I know about them."
Delancie leaned forward. "What do you know?"
"Laz used to send them to ... and I received so from another stalker. And so from..." Frida paused, her voice catching.
"From?" Delancie prodded.
Frida hesitated before whispering, "...Shelly."
Delancie nodded knowingly. "The Red Notes don’t have a singular sender."
She reached into her Birkin bag, pulling out an old, worn leather book. Placing it on the table, she opened it to reveal a ticulously detailed family tree. "This is the Book of Red," she said, her tone heavy with aning.
She pointed to an ornate title etched into the page: The House of Red. Frida’s eyes drifted to the first couple pictured—a man in military attire with soulless dark eyes, and beside him, a woman so strikingly beautiful that her radiance shone even in the black-and-white photograph.
Frida leaned closer, her breath hitching as she studied the woman. The resemblance was uncanny. It was as if she were looking at a combination of her mother’s face and her own.
"What’s your full na?" Delancie asked.
"Frida," she replied cautiously, frowning.
"No, your full na."
"Frida Red Michaels," she said, a chill running down her spine as the words left her mouth.
Delancie’s eyes glead with grim understanding. "And Laz’s full na?"
Frida hesitated, fear curling through her like smoke. "Laziel Notesse Dark."
"Red. Notes." Delancie said pointedly, her words slicing through Frida like a blade.
The weight of the revelation left Frida reeling.
"Your family has been running this business for generations, Frida," Delancie continued solemnly. "I’m sorry to tell you this, but your family may very well be one of our enemies."
At that mont, mories ca crashing down on Frida like a violent storm—fragnts of fear, betrayal, and sothing far darker than she had ever dared to confront.
"Frida, wait!" Delancie called out, her voice echoing across the quiet parking lot.
Frida didn’t stop. She stord out of the fancy restaurant, her heels clicking sharply against the pavent, her breaths ragged with fury and disbelief.
"Frida!" Delancie tried again, chasing after her. "Just listen!"
Frida spun around, her face contorted with a mix of anger and pain. "What are you saying?" she demanded, her voice trembling. "Are you seriously trying to tell that my parents sold off to traffickers? To Laz’s mom?" Her voice broke, and the last words ca out in a whisper, like they physically hurt to say.
Delancie held up her hands in a calming gesture. "It’s more complicated than that, Frida. Please, just breathe—"
"Don’t co near !" Frida cut her off, stepping backward. "You’re a stranger. I should have known better than to trust you. What do you even know about my family?" Her voice cracked, her emotions threatening to spill over.
"I know because I was there," Delancie said quietly.
Frida froze mid-step. Her breath hitched, and she slowly turned to face Delancie. The words hung in the air like a thundercloud. "What do you an, ’you were there’?"
In response, Delancie wiped at the makeup on her chest, revealing a faint scar. A bullet mark.
Frida’s heart sank like a stone. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. "You’re lying. Sniper is a man."
Delancie’s lips curled into a smirk, her stance shifting effortlessly. "Gender-fluid," she said, her voice taking on a deeper, more masculine tone. Her heels clicked on the pavent as she advanced, her movents suddenly sharp and predatory.
Frida backed up, her spine pressing against a car. Her breaths ca in shallow gasps as Delancie closed the distance, boxing her in.
"Don’t look at like that, Frida," Delancie said, her voice dripping with amusent. She pulled out a cigar, lighting it with a practiced flick of her wrist. After taking a long drag, she exhaled the smoke directly into Frida’s face.
Frida turned her head, coughing. Fear gripped her chest, but she forced herself to speak. "If you don’t get your hands off , I’ll scream," she threatened, her voice unsteady.
Delancie chuckled darkly, leaning in closer. "Scream all you want. You think Laz is going to magically appear and save you? He’s in the hospital. And right now, I’m the one in control." Her voice lowered to a dangerous whisper. "I always get what I want."
Frida’s mind raced. She had to stay calm. She couldn’t show weakness. "No wonder Chelsea left you," she spat. "You’re a coward and a cheat."
The smile vanished from Delancie’s face. Her hand shot out, tangling in Frida’s hair, yanking her head back painfully. "Don’t you dare ntion Chelsea," she hissed, her eyes blazing with anger. "I loved her. I would kill you for her. Do you hear ?"
Frida nodded stiffly, biting back tears. She knew better than to push any further.
Delancie released her grip, straightening her posture. "Now, be a good girl," she said with a cold smirk. "Not a word of this to Laz. Understand?"
Frida nodded again, her legs trembling beneath her. Delancie opened the car door and shoved her inside.
The drive to the hospital was silent, the air between them heavy with tension. Delancie tossed a bundle of clothes into Frida’s lap. "Put those on," she commanded. "They’re for you and Laz. We don’t want him getting suspicious."
Frida hesitated, clutching the bundle tightly. Every fiber of her being scread not to comply, but the glint of the gun under Delancie’s coat silenced her protests. With shaking hands, she changed into the sweater and jeans, careful to shield herself as much as possible from Delancie’s piercing gaze.
"Good," Delancie said curtly as she pulled into the hospital parking lot. She leaned across the seat, her voice low and firm. "Tomorrow, we’re going to the bank under the guise of an interview. We’ll use it to get access and steal the evidence we need. Got it?"
Frida nodded mutely, her hands gripping the door handle.
"Rember," Delancie said, flashing the gun with a chilling smile. "Not a word to Laz."
Frida climbed out of the car, her knees weak. As Delancie sped away, Frida clutched her sweater, her mind racing. What had she gotten herself into? And how much more could she endure?
As she stepped into the hospital, Frida’s nerves prickled with unease. When she entered Laz’s room, she froze. He was standing, but the mont his eyes t hers, his already pale complexion seed to lose what little color it had left.
Still, he smiled at her—a smile that was both weary and genuine. Her heart clenched painfully in her chest.
In that mont, she knew. He was worth it. Worth everything.
Without hesitation, Laz crossed the room, his movents unsteady but purposeful, and pulled her into his warm embrace.
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