Page 21 of Devil's Tulip

GIANNA

I stare after Michael’s retreating form, bewildered, as the front door slams shut behind him. The roar of an engine and the crunch of gravel announce his hasty departure, and I’m left standing here like a lost duckling. Alone.

Did he… did he feel that too? That electric zing when our fingers brushed? Is that why he ran away?

Nah. Can’t be. A man like that, with those looks and that swagger? No way a little spark from an accidental touch would spook him.

No way he felt what I felt.

I glance around the now empty dining room, trying to shake off the sense memory of his skin on mine. The lingering heat. The phantom tingle.

Fuck. Get it together, girl. You’re sleep deprived and running on fumes. Your brain is playing tricks on you, turning nothing into something. Stop it.

I should be using this time to take stock. Plan my next move before he gets back from wherever the hell he scurried off to.

But…

Now that silence fills the space around me, I finally have time to process everything that happened… and I’m a little lost on what to do.

I can’t believe I was‘this’close to being shipped off back to Uncle Aldo. The dark possibility makes me shudder, and I shove it aside as the shattered plate decorating the floor catches my eye. I should clean that up.

Now where would a man like Michael stash a vacuum or broom in a place like this?

Just as that thought pops up in my head, there’s a faint buzzing sound from the foyer. I tense, heart kicking into overdrive when the door suddenly opens—as far as I know I’m alone in here right now.

Fuck, where did you go, Michael?

Instinct kicks in, and I quickly bend down to pick up a shard of porcelain, ready to defend myself as the buzzing gets louder and louder. But then—oh, for goodness’ sake.

A laugh bursts out of me, all that built-up tension draining from my shoulders. It’s just one of those automated robot cleaners, making a beeline straight for me, or rather the mess on the floor.

I take several steps back, watching in fascination as it efficiently sucks in every broken piece. When it’s done, it does a little spin—like it’s proud of itself—then rolls back the way it came.

Curious now, I trail after it, surprised when the door slides open as the machine gets closer.Huh. I was so out of it earlier, I didn’t even notice the doors are automatic.

The little bot leads me to its docking station behind the staircase and powers down with a decidedly satisfied beep. I crouch, studying the now-dormant device. Back when I still lived with Uncle Aldo, he used to rant about these whenevercommercials came on TV—called them “freaks of nature” and swore he wouldn’t have one in his house even if they paid him.

My eyes land on a tiny camera at the top. So that’s how it finds its way around. Does it record? My stomach knots. If Michael has access to the feed, he could be watching me right now.

Straightening, I turn to head back to the dining room—but then something else grabs my attention. A sleek, glassy panel mounted on the wall.

I hesitate briefly, then tap on it.

“Hello, I’m Synthia. How may I assist you?”

I jolt back, eyes darting around. But no one’s there. A second later, the artificial tone registers. Right. AI.

The panel glows a soft blue, and tiny functions pop up on the screen. I squint at the words at the bottom.Synthia: Voice-Controlled Assistant.

I scroll through the options.Smart thermostat.A few taps and the room warms slightly. Huh. Neat.

Then I dig deeper. Synthia controls 90% of the functions in the house—everything from lights and heating to opening doors for the little vacuum army. There are four of them total, two upstairs, two downstairs, and Synthia clears their paths automatically.

It—or she?—also allows remote monitoring of the apartment, which means…

I swallow.

Michael really could be watching me from wherever he is.

---