Chapter 4 Poisoned Roses

# Chapter 4: Poisoned Roses

Two weeks after Corwin's fall from grace, a delivery arrives at my new office—a stunning arrangement of red roses. No card, but I don't need one to know who sent them. Red roses were always Corwin's apology of choice, as if expensive flowers could erase his transgressions.

"Those are gorgeous," Rebecca says, now working as my executive assistant in the temporary office space Alaric has provided while we execute our plan. "Secret admirer?"

"More like a not-so-subtle reminder," I reply, eyeing the flowers with distaste. "Have these sent to the children's hospital, please."

She nods, understanding without needing explanation. "Also, the Blake Industries board has confirmed your meeting for tomorrow. Mr. Donovan's team has prepared the presentation outlining your proposed restructuring plan."

I thank her and return to reviewing the documents before me—financial records, corporate governance protocols, and the skeletons in Blake Industries' closet that even I didn't know about until Alaric's team uncovered them. The company is in worse shape than anyone realizes, Corwin's mismanagement extending far beyond what I'd covered up over the years.

My phone buzzes with a message from Alaric: *Dinner tonight to discuss strategy? 8 PM at Maison Noir.*

A small smile touches my lips as I type my response: *I'll be there.*

Working with Alaric these past weeks has been revelatory. Where Corwin demanded adoration and obedience, Alaric values competence and honesty. He challenges my ideas rather than dismissing them, and when he disagrees, he does so with respect rather than condescension.

I'm still contemplating this contrast when my office door opens without warning. Elysia Montgomery stands in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a cream suit that probably costs more than most people's monthly rent.

"We need to talk," she announces, striding in as if she owns the place.

I gesture for Rebecca to leave us, maintaining my composure despite my surprise. "By all means, have a seat."

She remains standing, her gaze falling on the roses. "He sent those, didn't he? Still trying to win you back even as his life falls apart." Her laugh is brittle. "Some patterns never change."

"What can I do for you, Elysia?" I ask, refusing to be baited.

She places a manila folder on my desk. "You can explain this."

Inside are photographs—me entering Alaric's building late at night, us dining together, even one of him touching my face in what appears to be an intimate gesture, though I recall he was merely brushing away an eyelash.

"Are you having me followed?" I demand, anger flaring.

"I'm protecting my interests," she counters smoothly. "You destroyed my wedding and reputation. Did you think I wouldn't investigate exactly who you are and what you're really after?"

I close the folder, pushing it back toward her. "If you came here to threaten me—"

"I came to warn you," she interrupts. "Alaric Donovan isn't the white knight you think he is. Did you know he and Corwin were once best friends? Did you know what happened between them?"

I hesitate, caught off guard by the question. Alaric had mentioned they were rivals since Harvard, but never elaborated.

Seeing my uncertainty, Elysia smiles thinly. "Ask him about Victoria Blake sometime. Ask him what he did to Corwin's sister."

Before I can respond, she continues, "And while you're at it, ask him why he really approached you six months ago. It wasn't coincidence, Marcelline. He's been planning this for years—using you to destroy Corwin."

Her words land like blows, each one finding a crack in my newfound confidence. "If you're trying to create problems between me and Alaric—"

"I don't need to create problems. They're already there," she says, gathering her belongings. "You were a tool for Corwin for ten years. Now you're a tool for Alaric. Different man, same story."

After she leaves, I sit motionless, her accusations echoing in my mind. Could she be right? Has Alaric been manipulating me just as Corwin did, only with different tactics?

The thought haunts me through the afternoon as I prepare for my board presentation. By evening, my mood has darkened considerably, doubt creeping in where certainty once stood.

Maison Noir is discreetly elegant, the kind of restaurant where the wealthy go to avoid being seen. Alaric is already seated at a corner table when I arrive, rising to greet me with a warm smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Tough day?" he asks as I take my seat.

"You could say that," I reply, studying him carefully. "I had an interesting visitor."

His expression remains neutral. "Let me guess—Elysia Montgomery."

My surprise must show, because he continues, "My security team noticed her entering your building. What did she want?"

I signal the waiter for a glass of wine before answering. "She wanted to tell me about your history with Corwin. About someone named Victoria Blake."

The change in Alaric's demeanor is subtle but unmistakable—a slight tightening around the eyes, a momentary stillness. "I see."

"Is it true?" I press. "Were you and Corwin friends before you became enemies? And what does his sister have to do with it?"

The waiter arrives with our wine, providing Alaric a moment to compose himself. When we're alone again, he takes a careful sip before meeting my gaze.

"Victoria was Corwin's younger sister," he begins, his voice low. "We were... close, in college. Corwin didn't approve—he had political ambitions even then, and my family wasn't connected enough for his taste."

"What happened to her?" I ask, sensing there's more to the story.

Alaric's expression darkens. "She died. Car accident, ten years ago. Corwin blamed me, claimed I was distracting her with a phone call when she crashed. He used his family's influence to ensure I was investigated, nearly ruined my career before it began."

"And was it true? Were you on the phone with her?"

"No," he says firmly. "I was in a board meeting. But Corwin needed someone to blame, and I was the convenient target."

I absorb this, trying to reconcile it with Elysia's insinuations. "She also suggested you approached me deliberately. That you've been planning to use me against Corwin for years."

At this, Alaric sets down his glass, his gaze unwavering. "I knew who you were, yes. Everyone in our circle knew Corwin had someone special he kept hidden away. But I didn't seek you out until I heard rumors of your unhappiness, of how he was planning to marry Elysia while still keeping you tethered to him."

"So this is all about revenge for you?" I ask, the old familiar feeling of being used creeping back. "Taking what Corwin values most?"

"It started that way," he admits, surprising me with his candor. "But it changed when I got to know you. When I saw your brilliance, your resilience despite everything he put you through."

I want to believe him, but after a decade of Corwin's lies, trust doesn't come easily. "Elysia thinks I've simply traded one manipulator for another."

Alaric reaches across the table, his hand stopping just short of touching mine—offering connection without demanding it. "The difference is, I don't want you in the shadows, Marcelline. I want you in the light, taking what's rightfully yours."

Our dinner continues, the conversation shifting to safer topics—tomorrow's board meeting, the restructuring plan, the future of Blake Industries. But underneath runs a current of unspoken questions and half-revealed truths.

Later that night, alone in my apartment, I find another delivery waiting—a small, elegant box containing a vintage silver compass and a note in Alaric's distinctive handwriting: *"For finding your own way forward, regardless of who walks beside you."*

I turn the compass over in my hands, noting that it points true north despite its age. Unlike the roses—showy but ultimately dying things—this gift acknowledges my independence rather than trying to buy my forgiveness.

Standing before my mirror, I study my reflection—the shadows under my eyes, the tension in my shoulders, the uncertainty that has crept back into my gaze after Elysia's visit.

"I am not weak," I tell my reflection, echoing the words that have become my mantra. But tonight, I add something new: "I am not a weapon for anyone to wield. Not Corwin's. Not Alaric's. Not Elysia's."

The woman in the mirror straightens, her eyes hardening with resolve. "I am not weak," I repeat, my voice gaining strength. "I am the goddess of revenge. And I choose my own targets."

The compass sits heavy in my palm, its needle steady and sure. Tomorrow, I will face the Blake Industries board not as Corwin's secret or Alaric's ally, but as Marcelline Foster—a force to be reckoned with in her own right.

And anyone who forgets that—whether friend or foe—will learn the cost.