IT WAS sunny, but the breeze was cold. Petals in the vast garden swayed.
A man in a grey suit stood with folded hands. They called him Peach. He watched his master.
In the midst of that motley crowd of blooms and lean green turfs, his master sat on a wooden stool. His broad back bent, long fingers working a cutter. Another bundle of flowers lay in a stainless container.
Peach stepped forward.
"Sir, Mountain View Realty has called."
The man didn't turn, only tilted his head.
"Let someone handle it."
His bass voice stayed flat.
Another breeze passed, tugging their hems. His loose white flannel shifted with the air. His dark hair moved too. He lifted his head, eyes faintly wet. Dirt marked the knees of his cargo pants.
"As expected, the family was angered when the professor refused to arrange an exam he'd handled for years. They exposed his money issues."
The carnations dropped into the pot.
"And?"
"We'll make sure Miss Jiran won't be involved."
The master's hand stopped midair.
The breeze barely stirred this time, yet Peach felt the air prickle his skin—cold, like from a cave that had never seen light.
"Keep her out of it."
"Of course, sir."
He was told not to involve Miss Jiran in that exam. That meant this scandal too. No mistakes allowed.
Peach caught his master's profile then. His unreadable gaze lingered on the deep red tulips beside the container.
And Peach knew—she was already involved, whether his master willed it or not.
...
ALTHOUGH the scandal spread online and whispers filled the campus, the authorities kept it quiet. The Science and Engineering Department posted a statement:
"We are fully cooperating with the authorities, who have found substantial evidence against a colleague allegedly involved in unlawful actions. Such behavior has no place in the respected academic profession, especially here at the nation's top-ranked university…"
Iyana snorted and closed her phone. All talk.
"Tired?" Solen asked.
"Hmm," Iyana muttered.
"I still can't believe he did," Solen sighed. "Is that why he looked so stressed?"
Iyana had changed her top.
"I have no idea," she said dryly.
"I've heard there's been a purge among the professors. But it feels so quiet," Solen said.
Iyana's fingers lingered on her clothes. She remembered yesterday—Prof. Frias's trembling hands on the phone, his shaky voice.
Why hadn't he wanted her to take the remedial exam for Danica Ang?
Why say he'd find someone else?
Had he refused the Angs?
Why?
Surely not conscience.
"There's another bouquet," Solen said.
Iyana turned.
"The dorm staff just delivered it."
On the desk sat a bouquet, wrapped in kraft paper.
For six months, red tulips had come. Twice a month, without fail. She had tried to trace the source. Around a hundred shops sold flowers in the capital. Three offered tulips. None sold red.
"Still no clue who's sending them?" Solen asked. "Crimson tulips are rare. And expensive."
Iyana gave a thin smile.
This wasn't Lyron.
Too secretive for him.
"Do you know why tulips are rare here?" she asked. Solen stayed quiet. Iyana answered herself. "They're hard to grow in tropical climates."
Yet these tulips were fresh. Genuine crimson. Whoever sent them had to be in the capital.
"What about the sender? You're sure it's a man?" Solen asked.
"That's easy," Iyana said with a wry smile. "Red tulips. Crimson. That's a man courting."
But was he?
"It's a secret admirer then," Solen said. "You've got plenty of guys who like you. One of them must be rich. But—" She paused, looked at Iyana. "Be careful. It's trouble, mixing with the rich."
Iyana thought of Danica Ang.
"There are pictures on the forums," Solen went on. "Him and a girl. Veronika Carreon. Last week. Youngest daughter of Carreon Enterprise. The airline. She studies abroad. Comes back for vacations. It's all online."
Iyana had seen it. The photo of them dining in an exclusive restaurant.
"Believe me, I'm trying," she said with a soft sigh. "He's the stubborn one. Anyway, I'm busy. Prof. Rodel wants to talk about my paper."
"Still lacking funds?" Solen asked.
"I may not graduate," Iyana said with a thin smile.
"That's not true," Solen said firmly. "The department will help you."
"I'm not sure," Iyana murmured. After Prof. Frias, she didn't know who to trust.
She went to her desk. Took the bouquet. Loosened the lace. Slid the flowers into a tall white vase. A faint sweetness drifted up. She placed them by the window.
Who are you?
And why do I feel you're closer than I think?