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PROLOGUE

The darkness suffocated her.

It closed in until Olivia could see nothing else. If only she had a ray of light, a ray of hope . . . but she didn’t. She only had this blinding abyss of despair.

She pulled against the ropes that bound her wrists to the wall. The concrete floor felt cold and damp beneath her. A chill crept into her chest and rattled every time she drew in a breath.

The damp scent of the earth mingled with the sickly-sweet perfume of roses The Admirer always brought with him.

Roses shouldn’t be in this underground prison. They belonged in sunlight, in gardens, on the sets of The Inside Scoop with Olivia , where she interviewed celebrities under bright lights. Not here where the flowers’ scent was twisted into something sinister.

No one was around to help her—except the monster who put her here. The monster who began his countdown with twelve perfect roses delivered to her door. Ten the next week. Eight after that.

His calling card became clear too late. By the time the bundle of four roses appeared inside her network dressing room, even her viewers had noticed her jumpiness on air.

The police had nodded sympathetically when she finally went to them. But without evidence of a threat, there wasn’t much they could do.

“Flowers aren’t a crime, Ms. Montgomery,” the detective had said, scribbling notes she suspected would never be read again.

Then the two roses appeared on her car.

The single rose appeared on her nightstand. In her locked apartment.

It came with a note: Finally.

Now she was here.

Each day, the door to her prison would creak open, and The Admirer would enter carrying fresh roses. Always roses.

Olivia never saw his face. Only the porcelain Casanova mask he wore—white and expressionless with hollow eyes that revealed nothing of the man behind it.

She remembered him sitting across from her, trimming roses with silver shears that caught the light from the single bulb overhead. His voice was distorted when he spoke, almost sounding mechanical.

“I’ve admired watching you on TV for years. The way you connect with celebrities, draw out their secrets. You have a gift.” The mask tilted slightly. “I’ve been watching The Inside Scoop since the first episode. I knew you were special when you interviewed Preston James. You asked him about his divorce with such compassion. You understood his pain.”

“Please,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Please, don’t turn off the light when you leave.”

The mask regarded her silently, head cocked like a curious bird. “The darkness frightens you.” It wasn’t a question. “Yet you face the harsh lights of television studios daily. You navigate the shadowy world of celebrity with such confidence.”

“Please,” Olivia repeated, hating the weakness in her voice. “Stay. Talk to me.”

“You want me to stay?” The mask couldn’t smile, but she heard it in his voice—pleasure, triumph. “They never want me to stay.”

By “they,” he meant the other women. The ones who hadn’t survived. There were at least six she knew of. Each had died after being in captivity, their throats slit . . . as if they’d been roses being pruned.

Her blood went colder.

After that, he came daily, always with roses. Always wearing the mask. Always sharing stories of his “admiration.”

He told Olivia how he’d tracked her career from back when she’d started as a local reporter in Baton Rouge to her breakthrough hosting the People’s Choice Awards two years ago.

He told her how proud he’d been when The Inside Scoop became the highest-rated entertainment show in its time slot. How he’d collected every magazine that featured her. Every interview she’d given.

“People think roses are delicate,” he told her on the fifth day, arranging a fresh bouquet in a vase he placed just beyond her reach. “But they’re survivors. They endure through winter, through drought. They protect themselves with thorns.” The mask turned toward her. “You’re like that too, Olivia. Your life hasn’t been easy. Your father leaving to cook for the ‘admiring masses’ instead of his family. Your struggles in those early reporting jobs. But you survived. You thrived. That’s why I chose you.”

Brian Elliot—she would learn his name only after her escape—had the lean build of someone who spent hours tending gardens somewhere aboveground. His hands bore the calluses and small scars of his work.

Olivia never saw his face, but she memorized those hands. The way they moved when he spoke about her. The way they tightened on the shears when he grew excited.

On day six, he brought his scrapbook—newspaper clippings about the other women who’d died.

“These women . . . they weren’t right,” he’d explained as he turned the pages. “They didn’t appreciate beauty the way you do. The way we do.”

The smell of roses had become unbearable by then. Each time he visited, he brought fresh ones. Each time he left, Olivia was plunged into darkness with only the flowers’ cloying scent for company.

By the evening of the ninth day, she’d memorized his routine—the precise times he’d visit, the exact moment he’d turn his back to arrange the latest roses he’d brought.

By day ten, Olivia had worked one hand free from the restraints.

When he bent to position a bloom in the vase, she’d brought the handle of the garden shears down hard against the back of his skull. Not enough to kill—she couldn’t bring herself to do that—but enough to run.

She’d used the sheers to free her other wrist. Then she’d staggered three miles through dense woods. Even though he’d brought her sandwiches to eat, she was still weak. But adrenaline propelled her onward.

Finally, she’d found a highway. Her feet had become bloodied and her wrists raw.

A trucker had spotted her and called 911.

By the time police reached Elliot’s property, he’d barricaded himself in. He’d claimed it was all a mistake, a misunderstanding.

The standoff lasted four hours. When the FBI had finally breached Elliot’s home, he’d pulled out a gun. The police had no choice but to shoot.

Even now, two months after Olivia had escaped, she still couldn’t look at flowers without smelling the damp earth of that cellar. Without hearing his voice behind that blank mask explaining patiently: “Do you know what makes roses bloom so beautifully, Olivia? It’s the pruning. Cutting away makes them stronger.”

Now, Olivia sat in her therapist Lyle Strassel’s office and stared at the New York skyline. People hurried past on the sidewalks below. Traffic crawled by.

Life continued just like it always had. Normal people living normal lives.

“How do you feel?” Lyle, a man in his mid-fifties with thinning brown hair and thick glasses, leaned forward to look Olivia in the eye.

Olivia slid up from her position on the couch and reached for her forehead. Her vision was fuzzy and her head heavy from recounting the story with Lyle.

“Like I’m trapped in a past I can’t escape from.” The view from Lyle’s office normally helped ground her, but not today. Today, Olivia felt as if she were about to tumble from the edge.

“The Admirer can’t hurt you anymore.” Lyle’s voice was soft but confident.

“It doesn’t matter. He already did enough damage to last a lifetime.” Olivia’s words sounded dry and forced.

She swallowed, trying to hold back tears. She’d already shed too many over what had happened. The man who’d done this to her didn’t deserve any more of her thoughts or energy.

Of course, he was dead now. His suffering had been short and sweet.

Olivia, on the other hand, had to live with hers for the rest of her life.

“You can get through this,” Lyle said. “You just have to be prepared.”

“How?”

“When you know night is falling soon, what do you do? You prepare. You turn on lights to see your path. You start a fire to keep warm. It’s the same with our emotional darkness.”

“So I need a plan.”

“Yes, I’m giving you the tools you need.”

She nodded slowly.

“Remember you’re not alone,” Lyle said. “I can help you heal from your wounds. It just takes time.”

Two months of therapy so far, and the nightmares hadn’t gotten any better. In her dreams, the mask was still watching. Still counting down with roses.

How much time would it take to feel safe again? What if she never regained that feeling?

Olivia picked up her purse from beside the leather couch.

“Remember your assignment for the week?”

“Face my fears,” Olivia repeated, her voice void of emotion, making her sound like a recording. “Don’t pretend like I’m okay if I’m not. Open up more about my feelings with people I trust.”

But facades are what I do best, she wanted to argue. After all, who would ever believe she’d given her life to Christ if they knew the fear she lived in?

If anyone found out how tortured she felt, they’d expose her for being a fraud. She was supposed to live with a peace that passed all understanding. Instead, she existed in a state of anxiety that defied all logic.

Turning back to Lyle, Olivia put on a cheery expression and pretended like things were fine. Like the incident that had destroyed her life hadn’t affected her long-term.

Wasn’t that what everyone wanted to believe anyway? That her life was back to normal? People were comfortable with that thought—but very uncomfortable with the idea that her trauma still lurked inside her.

Besides, even if she divulged the truth, would anyone really understand?

Lyle was the only one who knew about Olivia’s nightmares.

“You’re spunky, Olivia. You’re a fighter. Everyone who watches you on TV admires your strength.” Lyle laid a hand on Olivia’s arm. “Be kind to yourself and give yourself a chance to heal.”

Olivia smiled briefly, but even that didn’t feel genuine.

Would she ever feel normal again?

Most days, the answer felt like a resounding no.