Page 20 of Secrets in the Dark

"Your card," he announced, flipping the top card to reveal the queen of hearts, "represents what we show the world. The face we present."

I tried to mask my surprise. "Impressive, but basic illusion."

"The real trick," he continued, ignoring my deflection, "is what's happening while everyone watches the card." His free hand moved to my wrist, turning it gently to reveal my watch. "Like the fact that I've reset your watch ten minutes ahead while you focused on the cards."

Sure enough, my watch now displayed a time ten minutes faster than the cafeteria clock. I hadn't felt him touch my wrist at all.

"Misdirection," I said, genuine admiration coloring my voice. "The fundamental principle of both magic and—"

"Deception," he finished, his eyes holding mine.

The word hung between us, laden with implication. We were both engaged in elaborate performances, both hidingbehind carefully constructed facades. The awareness created an intimate tension, electric and dangerous.

"Why are you showing me this?" I asked quietly.

"To demonstrate that what we focus on isn't always what we should be watching." He collected the cards with a single sweep of his hand. "Sometimes the real action happens in the periphery, where attention rarely falls."

"Is that a warning or advice?"

"Both, perhaps." His fingers brushed mine as he passed the queen of hearts to me. "Keep this. A reminder that even hearts have two faces—one seen, one hidden."

Something in his tone sent a shiver through me—part attraction, part caution. Roman King was playing a game I didn't fully understand, with rules I hadn't learned.

"I should get back," I said, rising. "Afternoon rehearsal."

He nodded, standing as well. "Be careful, Nova. The most convincing illusions are the ones we don't recognize as illusions."

I left the cafeteria with the queen of hearts tucked in my pocket and the unsettling certainty that Roman knew far more about me—and my situation—than he should.

The velvet box was on my makeup counter when I returned to my dressing room.

Small, square, wrapped in midnight blue ribbon—a jewelry box, the kind that typically held rings. No card, no explanation for its presence. Just the silent certainty that someone had again breached my private space.

I stared at it, nausea building in my throat. After last night's anonymous photo, I'd expected another message, another reminder that I wasn't safe. But this—this small, elegant box—somehow terrified me more than previous threats.

With trembling fingers, I untied the ribbon. The box opened on silent hinges.

Inside, nestled on black velvet, lay a severed rose stem. No bloom, just the cut stalk with its vicious thorns intact. Beneath it, written in meticulous script on cream cardstock, five words:

All magic ends in blood.

The room tilted. I stumbled backward, colliding with the costume rack. Bile rose in my throat—hot, bitter, unstoppable. I barely made it to the small, attached bathroom before emptying my stomach, the salad from lunch reappearing in violent heaves.

When the spasms subsided, I sank to the floor, pressing my forehead against the cool tile wall. The message wasn't just a threat; it was a promise. The escalation from observation to invasion of my apartment to following me to the Jade Petal now culminated in the explicit threat of violence.

My breath came in shallow gasps. The walls of the tiny bathroom seemed to contract, the air thinning until each inhalation felt insufficient. Classic panic attack symptoms—I recognized them clinically even as I succumbed to them physically.

I needed to call Detective Alvarez. Needed to alert security. Needed to tell someone, anyone, that the predator had found me again. I must’ve dropped my phone back into my bag after texting Alvarez. Now it felt miles away. A knock at the dressing room door sent fresh terror spiraling through me.

"Nova?" Roman's voice. "You left your script at the table. I thought you might need it for rehearsal."

When I didn't answer, the knob turned. He must have heard my ragged breathing because he crossed the room with swift purpose, appearing in the bathroom doorway.

"Shit," he muttered, taking in my huddled form and tear-streaked face. "What happened?"

I couldn't speak, could only gesture weakly toward the makeup counter. He followed my gaze, spotting the velvet box. His expression hardened as he examined its contents.

Without a word, he returned to the bathroom, crouching beside me. "Look at me," he said, voice gentle but commanding. "Focus on my eyes."

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