Chapter 875

Lucian gave a solemn nod. "Very well."

He escorted Rosalind to Mark's residence, only to find the door bolted and the place deserted.

Rosalind rapped her knuckles against the weathered wood. "Hello? Is anyone home?"

A neighbor from the adjacent cottage emerged, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. "Looking for Mark, are you?"

Rosalind inclined her head. "Yes. Do you know where he went?"

The woman shrugged. "Packed up and left Santorina yesterday. Said he'd made his fortune and wasn't coming back."

Fortune?

Rosalind's pulse quickened. "Did he mention where he was going?"

"You here for that Frostbloom?" The neighbor chuckled knowingly. "Some fancy city folk bought it off him—paid enough gold to make his grandchildren rich. Took the money and vanished before sunset."

Rosalind's stomach plummeted. The Frostbloom—gone.

They'd timed their journey perfectly, arriving just as the legendary flower bloomed after fifty winters. Yet someone had slipped in moments before them.

Too convenient.

Suspicion coiled in Rosalind's chest like morning mist. Who could have known?

Lucian's voice cut through her thoughts. "Are there other Frostblooms in these mountains?"

The neighbor barked a laugh. "Child, that blossom's rarer than honesty in politics. Only blooms when glaciers weep. Mark stumbled upon the only one this century."

No alternatives. No second chances.

Lucian's fingers brushed hers. "You're trembling."

"We missed it by hours," she whispered.

His lips curved in that heartbreaking half-smile she'd grown to cherish. "Perhaps the universe prefers me scarred. Does it trouble you?"

Rosalind pressed against him, inhaling the pine-and-snow scent clinging to his coat. "Not even slightly."

His lips grazed her hairline. "Home, then."

She nodded against his chest.

Back at The Celestial guesthouse, Lucian disappeared into the steaming bathroom. Rosalind perched on the quilted bed, fingering the embroidered curtains. That flower could have restored his face—erased the shadows in his eyes when mirrors caught him unawares.

The mystery gnawed at her. Who had outmaneuvered them?

Her phone trilled—an unfamiliar number flashing on the screen.

"Hello?"

A velvet laugh answered. "Ms. Fairchild. What a delightful coincidence."

Every muscle in Rosalind's body tensed. Genevieve.

They'd exchanged fewer words than chess moves, yet the woman's voice ignited primal recognition.

"Ms. Sutton."

"Indeed. Shall we converse?"

Rosalind's nails bit into her palm. "You're in Santorina?"

Another laugh, closer now. "In fact, I'm admiring the very same mountain view from the suite above yours."

Understanding dawned like winter sunrise. Rosalind's lips curled. "You bought the Frostbloom."

The timing. The precision. The ruthless efficiency.

Only Genevieve could have orchestrated this.