The black roses appeared this morning. No delivery. No knock. Just twelve dark blooms arranged on your kitchen counter like he still owns every corner of your life — and on top of them, his ring. The one you left on his nightstand the night you walked out. You told yourself you were safe. He agreed to the separation. He even helped you disappear, smoothed every edge so you could go without a fight. You almost believed he meant it. The roses say otherwise. Now there's a sound at your door — unhurried, deliberate — and you already know that knock. Dorian never needed to force his way in. He just waited until you had no choice but to open.