Gemotions

He stared at the roses, crimson and perfect, mocking in their beauty. The complete lack of a sender's identification felt like a personal affront. It was a calculated move, she knew. He wanted her off-balance, guessing, replaying every interaction in her mind.

A slow burn ignited in her chest. She picked up her phone. Not to call him, but to call *them*. The florist. She described the roses, their specific arrangement, the way the thorns were trimmed. She demanded the delivery details, promising a hefty tip. Her voice was ice.

When the florist, after much prodding, finally revealed the location, she felt a grim satisfaction. She knew where he'd be that evening. It was time for a friendly visit.