The Flower That Grew from Ashes novel Chapter 90

There was only one week left until the grand "wedding."

The entire Lehman Estate had entered a state of near frenzy for the final sprint.

Delivery trucks bearing the "Annelise Sargent Floral Design" label continuously hauled the freshest, globally sourced flowers into the estate.

Annelise personally led a team of floral assistants in the massive banquet hall, assembling a pure white floral wall designed to leave every guest in absolute awe.

Tens of thousands of pure white daisies and pure white calla lilies spilled from the ceiling all the way down to the floor, resembling a frozen, silent avalanche.

The entire stage was swallowed by this stark, blinding white—holy, solemn, yet laced with an indescribable, eerie sorrow.

The head table had already been set up.

Standing in front of it, Annelise took a single flower from her assistant.

It was a red poppy, its color so deep it was almost black.

In this blindingly white world, that single touch of red was glaringly abrupt, like a fresh drop of scorching blood that had yet to congeal.

With her own hands, she placed the poppy directly into the grand crystal vase at the center of the head table.

"Annelise, what are you doing?"

Clarissa's voice echoed from behind.

She was wearing the latest Chanel tweed jacket and high heels, coming over to "inspect" the progress.

Her eyes were instantly drawn to the jarring red poppy.

Her perfectly groomed brows furrowed, and a look of clear displeasure crossed her face.

"This color... it's not quite appropriate for this setting, is it?"

Annelise turned around, wearing the gentle smile she had practiced countless times.

"Clarissa, didn't you know?"

Her voice was as soft as a feather, yet carried an undeniable professional authority.

"Aside from symbolizing 'sin,' the poppy has another meaning."

"It means 'consolation' and 'oblivion.'"

She walked up to Clarissa and gently smoothed a stray hair on her jacket, acting as intimately as true, inseparable best friends.

"When you and Elias got married, his military duties meant a simple ceremony. You didn't even have a proper bouquet. Think of this as my belated wedding gift."

"May you both forget all the regrets of the past and find lasting consolation."

Her words were flawlessly delivered and perfectly reasoned.

Clarissa was so completely blocked she couldn't utter a single syllable in response.

Looking at Annelise's smiling face, she felt as though a heavily poisoned blade was hiding behind it.

She gave a cold little laugh, decided not to push the issue, and turned to leave.

Hackett's anxiety had become visibly apparent recently.

He was going in and out of Barnum's study with increasing frequency.

On several occasions, Annelise had seen him and Barnum arguing intensely behind closed doors.

Whenever he took a phone call, he unconsciously tapped his knuckles against the desk.

It was a nervous habit he had kept since his college days.

Annelise knew exactly where his anxiety was coming from.

At the very bottom of a thick stack of bills and invitations, she found a strange letter.

The envelope was a plain, cream color. There was no stamp, no postmark, and not even a recipient's name written on it.

It looked as if someone had slipped in under the cover of night and slid it directly inside.

Annelise's heart skipped a beat.

Keeping her face perfectly neutral, she tucked the letter among the others and took it back to her room.

She shut the door and locked it.

Tearing open the envelope, she found only a tiny, folded piece of paper.

On the paper, written in fountain pen, was a single line of text. The handwriting was identical to the sharp "Elias" Harriet had pieced together.

The strokes were fierce and unyielding, carrying the decisive, lethal aura unique to a military man.

"The wedding begins exactly at 3 PM on the day. Everything ends then."

And beneath that line were three English letters that made her breath hitch.

— E.L.

Elias Lehman.

Annelise stood staring at the note for a long time.

Then, she walked over to the window, clicked her lighter open, and set the paper on fire.

The bright orange flame instantly devoured the thin sheet.

She opened her fingers, letting the black, still-warm ash scatter into the freezing autumn wind.