Chapter 15
Elise's POV
I left my uncle's place at six in the evening.
When I walked out of that aging apartment building, the sky had already darkened, the streetlights not yet lit, the entire alley shrouded in a layer of gray dusk.
I didn't look back.
From the age of thirteen until now, I'd left this "home" countless times, but every time I closed the door behind me, I told myself the same thing—
You'll come back.
Because you don't have anywhere else to go. Not yet.
I took the bus across the district, got off at the seventh stop, walked three blocks, and turned into a narrow alley with no street numbers.
At the end of the alley stood an iron door painted deep gray, with a hand-written wooden sign hanging on it—"Night Rose."
Night Rose.
This was the name I'd given my tattoo studio.
No one knew it existed.
The school didn't know. Liam didn't know. Benjamin and Margaret certainly didn't know.
This was the only place that truly belonged to me.
I pulled out my key and opened the iron door, stepping inside.
The studio wasn't large—a converted warehouse space. Concrete floors, exposed brick walls, several warm yellow industrial lights hanging overhead, casting the entire room in a rough, unpolished kind of beauty.
Against one wall sat my workstation—neatly arranged with tattoo machines, needles, ink bottles, disinfectant, disposable gloves.
On the opposite wall hung several tattoo designs I'd drawn.
One of them was framed separately.
A rose.
Black petals, thorns along the stem, lines delicate yet sharp, like a finger reaching out from darkness.
I stood before this drawing for a moment.
This rose—I'd been drawing it for nine years.
Ever since I was thirteen, every time I closed my eyes, I saw it—that rose tattooed on the killer's ankle.
I took the drawing down from the wall, rolled it up, and placed it in my toolbox.
Then I began preparing what I actually needed to bring today.
I hesitated for a few seconds before finally retrieving it from the back of the drawer.
A hand-drawn tattoo sketch.
The last time I'd tattooed Victor, I'd changed the design on the spot. I'd replaced the original geometric pattern with a rose—identical to the one in my memory.
That tattoo hadn't been large, but Victor hadn't refused.
He'd only looked at me with those gray-blue eyes, then said in a low voice, "Interesting."
Now, I needed to prepare a new design for the next session.
I took out a clean sheet of kraft paper from my toolbox and spread it on the workstation.
Picking up my pencil, I began to draw.
Lines flowed across the paper, my fingers moving almost automatically.
A larger rose, petals layered upon petals, spreading from the collarbone to the shoulder, the stem extending down along the inner arm.
Every petal, every thorn, came from the images of that night burned into my memory.
After about twenty minutes, I stopped and looked at the completed design on the paper.
Satisfied.
I put the design away, placing it in the toolbox along with my other tools.
Just as I was closing the lid, footsteps sounded behind me.
My hand paused.
The studio door wasn't locked.
I turned around.
Backlit, a figure stood at the iron door.
Tall frame, light brown hair casually swept back, wearing a dark blue casual blazer with the collar slightly open, revealing the neckline of a white T-shirt underneath.
Liam.
He leaned against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket, the other carrying a paper bag.
A half-smile played at the corners of his mouth, as if he were admiring something.
"I actually found you."
He said.
His tone carried the triumph of a child who'd discovered a secret hideout.
My first instinct was to push the toolbox behind me.
But then I realized that motion would be too deliberate.
So I withdrew my hand and leaned against the workstation, looking at him.
"How did you know about this place?"
"Sophia told me." Liam walked in, his gaze sweeping around the studio. "She said you often come here alone after school. I asked around a bit."
He walked to the workstation, his eyes falling on the kraft paper I'd just drawn on—no, I'd already put that away.
He was looking at the other design sketches on the wall that I hadn't had time to put away.
"Not bad." He picked one up casually, studying it for two seconds. "When did you learn tattooing?"
"A long time ago."
"How long ago is a long time?"
"I don't remember."
Liam put the paper down and turned toward me.
His eyes looked softer than usual in the warm yellow light, without that cold, scrutinizing edge.
"Why aren't you happy?"
"I'm not unhappy."
"You say you're not, but you haven't smiled once since I got here." Liam took a step closer. "I know you, Elise. When you're unhappy, you get especially quiet."
I sighed internally.
He knew me.
At least he thought he did.
"Liam, I'm fine."
"Is this about what my mother said the other day?"
My fingers tightened slightly.
Liam's tone took on an edge of impatience. "What she said doesn't represent my attitude."
"You didn't need to come here to explain."
"I was passing by."
"Passing by an alley with no street numbers?"
Liam froze for a moment, then laughed.
When he laughed, his features relaxed, and he actually looked quite handsome.
"Alright, I wasn't passing by." He admitted. "I came specifically. Because you weren't answering my calls."
Only then did I remember—after leaving my uncle's place yesterday, I'd actually put my phone on silent.
"Liam, I really am fine."
"Then why didn't you answer your phone?"
"My phone died."
"Liar."
He walked up to me, close enough that I could smell his cologne—sandalwood and bergamot, the kind he always wore.
"Elise." He lowered his head, his eyes level with mine. "Look at me."
I raised my eyes.
His expression didn't look like he was joking.
"What my mother said was definitely out of line," he said. "All that about 'social standing' and 'don't harbor delusions'... she wasn't from some prominent family herself before she married my father. She has no right to say those things."
"Liam—"
"But there's one thing she was right about." He interrupted me. "If you're with me, you'll face a lot of pressure. Not just from my parents, but from the entire Sterling family."
He paused.
"Can you accept that?"
I looked at him.
He was asking if I could accept it.
This was the first time Liam had spoken to me in this serious tone.
Not commanding, not mocking—actually asking.
I thought about it.
Then I smiled.
Not that deliberate, placating kind of smile.
But the kind that would make him feel reassured, transparent.
"Liam," I said, "when have I ever not known the difference between us?"
He didn't respond.
"From the day you first paid my tuition, I knew."
My voice was calm, calm enough that it sounded like I was stating something that had nothing to do with me.
"You're the heir of the Sterling family. Your allowance is more than my living expenses for a year. Those things your mother said—social standing, reaching above my station—I already knew all of that."
I looked into his eyes.
"But I'm with you, not because of your money, and not because of whatever status you want to give me."
"Then why?"
"Because when I had nothing, you helped me."
Liam's expression changed.
Not moved—something more complex.
Like surprise.
As if he'd never imagined I would give this answer.