Chapter 42: Five Thousand Roses

The air in the backstage corridor was stale, thick with the lingering ozone of the stage lights and the sudden, suffocating scent of five thousand cut roses. Lulu, her face flushed with an excitement that bordered on the manic, had practically shoved the massive, blood-red bouquet into Ash’s arms.

The weight of them was staggering, a dense, thorny mass that left Ash struggling for balance.

"They were left at the stage door," Lulu whispered, her eyes wide as she gestured to the card buried in the center.

"No name, just the initials. 'B.S.' It’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen."

Ash felt a flicker of annoyance, though he masked it behind a calculated, practiced cool. He fished the card out with his free hand. The heavy, cream-colored stock felt expensive, the calligraphy sharp and elegant. I have seen five thousand roses, but none match your beauty. — B.S.

He turned, the roses swaying in his grip, and caught Sebastian leaning against a stack of equipment cases.

Sebastian was still dressed in his black tuxedo, his posture relaxed, his gray eyes tracking the bouquet with an unreadable, calm detachment. He didn't look threatened. He didn't look jealous. He looked as though he were watching a familiar scene unfold in a play he had written himself.

"Five thousand," Ash said, his voice dripping with a practiced, light-hearted artifice. He tilted his head, letting his gaze linger on the flowers as he paced toward Sebastian.

"It seems I have a secret admirer, Sebastian. Someone with remarkably deep pockets and a penchant for dramatic excess."

He waited for the flash of irritation, the tightening of the jaw, or the possessive flicker of movement that usually signaled the Alpha’s response to a threat. Instead, Sebastian simply smiled—a slow, knowing curve of the mouth that didn't reach his eyes, a look that suggested he was already aware of every petal in the arrangement.

"An admirer," Sebastian repeated. His voice was smooth, devoid of the jagged edge Ash was fishing for.

"The sentiment is... traditional. Perhaps a bit excessive for a performance night, but clearly, someone is dedicated to the aesthetic."

Ash felt his frustration spike, a hot, jagged sensation that settled in the center of his chest. He had expected a tactical response. He had expected a confrontation. The lack of jealousy—the sheer, infuriating confidence in Sebastian’s demeanor—made the gesture feel hollow, a performance for an audience that wasn't there.

"You don't seem concerned," Ash said, his voice narrowing, his grip on the roses tightening until the stems snapped under his pressure.

"For someone who claims to be the only one who matters, you’re remarkably unbothered by a rival."

"I am unbothered because I understand the nature of the game," Sebastian replied. He pushed off the equipment case, his movements liquid and controlled. He didn't step closer, but his gaze remained locked on Ash, his expression an infuriating mix of indulgence and amusement. "If the flowers bring you pleasure, then the objective has been achieved."

The objective.

The word hit Ash like a physical blow. He looked at the bouquet, the lush, red blooms now feeling like a burden, a heavy, suffocating weight he had no desire to carry.

The irony—the sharp, piercing realization that he was trying to use a gift to provoke a man who likely knew exactly how the stems had been trimmed—was too much to bear.

"If that’s all you have to say, then keep them," Ash snapped. He shoved the massive bouquet into Sebastian’s chest. The thorns caught on the lapel of the black tuxedo, dragging slightly, but Sebastian didn't move. He simply accepted the weight, his arms wrapping around the roses with a practiced, steady ease.

Ash didn't wait for a rebuttal. He turned on his heel, his boots clattering against the concrete with a sharp, echoing rhythm. He stormed toward the exit, the cold, metallic tang of the backstage air burning in his lungs. He needed to be away from the scent. He needed to be away from the calm, infuriating look of amusement on Sebastian’s face.

He burst through the double doors and into the freezing, mid-winter night of the Riverdale campus.

The air was a razor, biting against his skin, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the auditorium. He hadn't stopped to grab his coat; he was still in his white tuxedo, the fabric thin, the cold leaching through the silk instantly.

He walked fast, his head down, the wind whipping through his hair. He didn't know where he was going, only that the silence of the campus felt cleaner, more honest than the performance he had just endured.

Behind him, the auditorium door didn't open again.

Sebastian remained in the shadow of the corridor, the five thousand roses held in his arms like a shield.

He stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the door where Ash had disappeared, his expression shifting from amusement to a deep, dark, and entirely unyielding focus.

He felt a sudden, sharp tug at his wrist.

He looked down.

The prehnite bracelet—the small, pale-green stone set he had been wearing since the first week of the term—had caught on the thorns of the bouquet. The wire had snapped. The small, polished stones were scattering across the concrete floor, a tiny, rhythmic clink-clink-clink as they hit the ground.

Sebastian didn't reach for them. He didn't try to collect the pieces.

He watched the last stone roll into the shadow of a cabinet.

The bond was in the air, the mark on Ash’s neck was still pulsing, and the rank-list was finally within their grasp.

The bracelet was a small price for the performance.

He adjusted his hold on the roses, the thorns digging into his palms, the scent of the red petals filling the room with a suffocating, intoxicating sweetness.

He had seen five thousand roses.

And he was already planning the order for tomorrow.

He waited in the dark, his breath misting in the cold, the silence of the stage finally becoming absolute.

Ash was gone, but the storm was only gathering.

And as Sebastian stood there, the broken stones forgotten at his feet, he knew that the frustration Ash had walked out with was just another variable to be calculated.

Another move in the game they were playing.

Another piece to the throne.

He turned toward the dressing room, the flowers pressed against his chest, the thorns leaving fine, red lines against the matte wool of his tuxedo.

Tomorrow.

The exam. The victory.

He would find him in the morning.

And he would finish the conversation.