A Sea of Fatal Blooms
I clenched the hem of my wedding dress, my fingertips pressing into my palm.
Beneath the white veil, the red carpet before me looked like a pool of congealed blood.
Sawyer James stood before the altar, a silver clan emblem pinned to the collar of his black suit.
The pattern on that emblem was still stamped on the wrist of the man who had kidnapped my sister, Mia Sheen, three days ago.
"If you want Mia to live, then come wearing this wedding gown." His voice on the phone was as cold as ice.
As the priest recited the vows, I fixed my gaze on his gleaming leather shoes.
The tip of the shoe reflected my pale face, like a soulless puppet.
"I do." The three words squeezed from my throat, tasting of rust.
On the night the wedding ended, the bedroom TV suddenly flickered on.
On the news screen, three bodies covered in white sheets floated on the river.
"The Sheens and their eldest son were found floating dead in the river; preliminary findings indicate homicide..."
The blood in my body instantly ran cold.
Sawyer wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, his chin resting softly on my shoulder.
"Those who are disobedient deserve such a fate." He spoke in a flat tone, as if commenting on the weather.
I bit my lip, not daring to cry.
Mia was still in his grasp; I couldn't afford to falter.
In the days that followed, I was confined to the villa's second floor. He forbade me from opening the windows or touching any communication devices.
Every night, he would sit by the bedside, deliberately recounting the details of my family's so-called "rebellion."
I began to suffer from insomnia, unable to stop coughing throughout the night.
Until one dawn, coughing uncontrollably, a splash of crimson stained the white pillow.
These are petals of the fatal flowers.
The elders say that those who suffer extreme sorrow contract this illness; the day the petals fall completely is the day they die.
When Ruby Lincoln arrived, I was staring blankly at the petals.
She wore a red dress that made the eyes dizzy — Sawyer's most cherished woman.
"Shirley Sheen, you have taken my place." She raised her hand and brutally pushed into my lower abdomen.
Inside me was a child, two months old.
As the searing pain struck, I saw the smile curl at the corner of her mouth.
Blood trickled down the hem of the wedding gown, staining the carpet crimson.
Sawyer rushed in, took just one glance, then scooped up Ruby.
"She didn't do it on purpose. Don't make a fuss." He left those words behind and walked away without looking back.
I lay on the ground, coughing up more petals.
Sawyer's mother, Mandy, stepped on my skirt as she entered, handing me an agreement.
"Trade your fatal flowers for your sister Mia's freedom. Sign it."
I stared at the words on the agreement, my fingers trembling.
The moment I signed, I didn't see the flicker of calculation in her eyes.
At that moment, I still did not realize that this was only the beginning of an even deeper conspiracy.
The crystal chandelier at the banquet was studded with scattered diamonds, the light refracted through the facets, dazzling and painfully bright to the eyes.
Ruby suddenly let out a sharp scream, wearing a wine-red slip dress, holding high a pocket watch broken in two.
"Sawyer! She has destroyed your family heirloom!" As she pointed at me, tears spilled down her cheeks like broken strands of pearls, looking utterly wronged.
That pocket watch was a relic left by Sawyer's father. The face was engraved with the James family crest, and just yesterday it stood prominently on the redwood cabinet in the study.
I was just about to explain when Sawyer strode over with long, determined steps.
When he gripped my wrist, his nails nearly pierced my flesh, forcing me to gasp sharply.
"Is that what you like? Destruction?" There was no warmth in his eyes as he spoke, pressing my right hand down into the fireplace.
The scorching heat of the flames engulfed my palm instantly — first a numbness, then a sharp, stabbing pain. The acrid scent of burning flesh blended with the smoky aroma of wood from the hearth, invading my nostrils.
I screamed and struggled, my body arching backward, but his hand was like an iron vice, gripping tighter and tighter, impossible to break free.
"Apologize." He locked his gaze on mine, his voice as cold as ice, leaving no room for negotiation.
I clenched my teeth, swallowing the plea for mercy on the tip of my tongue, staring at him in silence.
Only when the pain in my palm turned numb did he finally release his grip.
That night, two bodyguards dragged me down to the basement; my right hand dared not touch a thing, hanging stiffly at my side.
The basement floor was thickly covered in dust. I sat on the cold ground, tracing the scratches on the wall with my uninjured left hand.
For every day I waited, I carved a mark. Now there were three deep gouges, as if I had etched all my concern for Mia into the wall.
One day, two days, three days... I counted the passing time, praying that Mandy would honor her promise and set Mia free.
On the seventh morning, the basement door creaked open. A blinding light poured in, and I instinctively squinted against it.
Two bodyguards came forward, one on each side, seizing my arms, while Mandy followed behind, clad in an ivory dress and clutching an exquisite handbag.
"Your little sister is very obedient; it's just that the fatal flowers grow slowly." She said with a smile.
My heart plummeted suddenly, as if crushed by a giant boulder, making it hard to even breathe. The fatal flowers grow near the heart; picking them is like taking a life. They never intended for Mia to survive.
"You can't touch her!" I struggled, trying to escape toward the door, but the bodyguards' strength was overwhelming, holding my arms tight, rendering me helpless.
Mia was bound to the operating table with rough hemp rope; her hair was tangled, and tears stained her face. When she saw me, fresh tears welled up, and her voice was as faint as a mosquito's buzz.
A person in a white coat passed by, and I lunged forward like a madwoman, desperate to pull Mia from the operating table, only to be stopped by Mandy from behind. Her grip on my arm was fierce and unyielding.
She whispered into my ear, her voice dripping with venomous amusement: "See? This is how your father met his fate back then."
"The one who ambushed Sawyer that year wasn't your father—it was me."
Those words struck me like a thunderclap, leaving me dizzy and disoriented, my mind utterly blank—I even forgot the pain in my arm.
The moment the scalpel cut through Mia's skin, a sudden sweet, metallic taste flooded my throat—I coughed up a handful of fresh, crimson fatal flowers, soon soaked by Mia's spilling blood.
I watched the light slowly fade from Mia's eyes, shifting from terror to an empty void, her body gradually going limp.
As my consciousness gradually blurred, the voices around me began to fade into the distance, leaving only Mandy's shrill laughter echoing over and over in the operating room, stabbing into my heart like needles.
I woke up in the bedroom, my right hand wrapped in thick bandages.
On the bedside table sat a bowl of pitch-black medicinal broth, meant to cure the fatal flowers.
Sawyer sat at the edge of the bed, his eyes filled with complicated emotions as he looked at me.
"Why didn't you kill me?" I asked in a hoarse voice.
He gave no answer, merely pushing the medicinal broth closer to me.
I raised my hand and knocked the bowl over, shards of porcelain splintering onto his trouser leg.
"Sawyer! You and your mother are both murderers!" I screamed, pulling the hidden fruit knife from beneath my pillow.
I lunged at his chest with the knife, but he caught my wrist.
"If you kill me, who will avenge Mia?" His voice was soft, yet it pierced right through my most vulnerable spot.
Yes, Mia must not have died in vain. I will make the James family pay.
Suddenly, I laughed—a laugh so bitter it brought tears to my eyes.
"Sawyer, my head hurts so much... Didn't we agree to run away together?" I feigned amnesia, my eyes swimming with confusion.
My memory slipped back three years; at that time, I had yet to uncover his true identity, believing he truly cared for me.
Sawyer froze, a flicker of wild joy sparking in his eyes.
"Shirley, you remember now?" He gripped my hand, the heat from his palm scorching me with revulsion.
I nodded, though inside I sneered coldly. From that day forward, I wore my disguise—I pretended to remember nothing, clinging to him every day.
"Sawyer, shall we go see the begonia blossoms?"
"Sawyer, you once promised to marry me—do you still remember?"
He was very cooperative, even canceling all his dates with Ruby.
No one knew that every night, after he had fallen asleep, I would write in my diary.
I recorded the times and locations where the James family smuggled cultural relics, tracked Mandy's movements, and documented every piece of evidence against them.
I taped the diary securely under the bed slats, hiding it with utmost care.
Mandy's birthday banquet had arrived. She sat at the head of the table, receiving everyone's blessings like a queen reigning from on high.
I carried a glass of red wine over, a sweet smile playing on my lips.
"Mom, happy birthday." I passed her the wine glass.
She took the glass and was about to lift it to her lips when I suddenly drew the dagger concealed in my sleeve.
The dagger pressed against her throat; its icy touch made her freeze instantly.
"Mom, it's time we settle the score." I leaned close to her ear, my voice as cold as ice.
The banquet hall erupted into chaos.
Guests screamed and stumbled backward as bodyguards rushed in.
Sawyer surged forward at the front, but I stopped him with a sharp command.
"Take one more step, and I'll kill her." I fixed my gaze on him, the dagger inching closer to Mandy.
Mandy's face went pale, her body trembling uncontrollably.
"Shirley, let's talk this through calmly. Don't act impulsively." Sawyer's voice carried a plea, his eyes brimming with urgency.
I let out a bitter laugh, though tears nearly spilled from my eyes.
"Talk calmly? When my sister died, why didn't you talk calmly to her?"
"When my entire family drowned, why didn't you speak calmly to them?"
Mandy suddenly burst into mad laughter, her voice sharp: "Shirley, do you think you can kill me?"
She clapped her hands, and more bodyguards rushed in, completely surrounding me.
I was pinned to the ground by two bodyguards as the dagger clattered onto the carpet.
Sawyer crouched down and reached out to touch my face.
"Shirley, stop this. Let's go home." His eyes held disappointment and a complex expression I couldn't understand.
I turned my face away, avoiding his touch.
For the next three months, I kept up the ruse. Only, Sawyer grew more cautious around me.
He forbade me from leaving his sight; even when I bathed, the maid had to wait outside the door.
But I never gave up on finding evidence.
One afternoon, when Sawyer went to a company meeting, I sneaked into his study. On the top shelf of the bookcase was an inconspicuous hidden compartment. I tiptoed and opened it; inside was a wooden box.
The wooden box was lined with red velvet and contained a yellowed handkerchief, embroidered with the character "Sheen" in fine, delicate stitches.
It was my mother Harper Nelson's handkerchief. This handkerchief was her sole keepsake. How did it end up with Sawyer?
"What are you looking at?" Sawyer's voice suddenly came from the doorway.
Flustered, I hurriedly hid the wooden box behind me and turned around, feigning a panicked expression.
"N-nothing. I just wanted to find a book to read."
He came closer, wrapping his arms around me from behind, resting his chin atop my head.
"Shirley, don't rummage through my things. Be good." His voice was gentle, yet it sent a chill rippling through my entire body.
I nodded, but the unease inside me only deepened.
Later, I used the excuse of going to the temple on the city outskirts to pray for blessings, finally managing to shake off the maid who had been tailing me.
The Buddhist Hall was thick with curling incense smoke; behind the incense burner, in a hidden compartment, I found a notebook bound in blue.
Opening to the first page, the familiar handwriting made tears instantly fall from my eyes.
It was my father's notes. Inside, he had recorded his investigation from years ago — the James family not only smuggled cultural relics but were involved in multiple murders.
The last page read: "Harper, if anything happens to me, you must protect our daughter. As the daughter of a police officer, she is likely to be targeted for revenge. She must not be dragged into this..."
So it turned out my father was an undercover police officer.
I was deeply engrossed in watching when footsteps approached from behind.
It was Sawyer James.
He knelt on the meditation cushion, devoutly kowtowing before the Buddha statue. Incense ashes fell onto his palm, burning a blister.
Yet, as if feeling nothing, he continued kowtowing, murmuring words under his breath.
I looked at his profile, my heart tangled with conflicting emotions.
This man—does he truly care for me, or is he still pretending?
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