The Donna Rose Buried in the Snow Chapter 06

The Donna Rose Buried in the Snow Chapter 06

The next morning, the funeral home came to take my 

body. 

But Damien drove straight to the Hayes house. 

I guessed he wanted answers from Natalia. 

In the living room, Natalia sat in front of a canvas, lost 

in thought. 

When she saw him, her eyes lit up. 

Then dimmed just as quickly. 

Something on his face told her this wasn’t right. 

“Don… what’s wrong?” 

She set her brush down. 

Her voice softened. 

She reached for his hand, like she always did. 

But he stepped back. 

Avoided her touch. 

His gaze flicked to the bandage on her hand. 

Then away. 

His voice was ice. 

“Two nights ago… you saw me tie Alison up in the 

garden.” 

“Why didn’t you stop me?” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?!” 

Natalia froze. 

Her hand hung in the air. 

Her eyes darted. 

“I… I thought you were just teaching her a lesson…” 

“I didn’t think it’d be this cold…” 

“A lesson?” 

Damien laughed. 

Bitter. Hollow. 

“Tying her up in the snow all night-” 

“That’s what you call a lesson?” 

He stepped closer. 

“Were you waiting for something to happen to her?” 

Natalia’s eyes reddened. 

Tears fell. 

“No!” 

“How can you say that, Don?” 

“I just… I was jealous…” 

“She had everything.” 

“Mom and Dad loved her.” 

“You treated her well too…” 

Suddenly, Damien remembered that moment in the 

garden when he told the guards, “Tear it down. Natalia 

hates roses.” 

Then a line from my journal: [The roses Damien planted for me bloomed today. I’m so happy.] 

Something clenched in his chest. 

Dull. 

Heavy. 

He didn’t argue anymore. 

He turned and walked out. 

Natalia called after him. Crying. 

But he didn’t look back. 

I followed him, watching him drive home. 

He ran red lights again, hands gripping the wheel tight. 

Maybe he still didn’t understand. 

This panic wasn’t love. 

It was guilt. 

The realization that he had pushed away the one 

person who gave him everything. 

That he had ignored her until she died. 

And now–he was afraid. 

Not of losing me. 

But of facing himself. 

When Damien got home, the villa was silent. 

So quiet I could hear the snow falling. 

He walked into my study. 

Picked up my journal again. 

Page after page. 

The sound of paper flipping filled the room. 

Then his hand stopped on one entry. 

[Today I asked Damien to watch the sunrise with me. 

He said he had work. But later I found two tickets in his 

car. For the mountain. Dated today.] 

[It’s okay. He’ll come with me next time.] 

His fingers traced the words. 

Slow. 

Careful. 

Like they might break. 

Then he flipped to the last page. 

A photo fell out. 

Me. 

Last summer. 

Standing in the rose garden. 

Holding a fresh rose. 

Smiling–teeth showing. 

On the back, I had written: [I hope Damien always likes 

me.] 

He pressed the photo to his chest. 

His shoulders trembled. 

He didn’t cry, but his breathing turned heavy. 

Like something was stuck in his throat. 

Then he grabbed my phone and unlocked it. 

The password was his birthday. 

The gallery was full of photos of him. 

His side profile during meetings. 

His hands dusted with flour while cooking. 

His eyelashes resting against his skin when he slept. 

All of him. 

The last video–it played. 

The camera shook violently. 

Wind howled. 

Snow blurred everything. 

And my voice–broken. Faint. 

“Damien… I’m so cold…” 

“Can you come get me… please?” 

“I won’t throw a tantrum again…” 

The video ended. 

Damien slammed the phone to the floor. 

The screen shattered. 

Spiderweb cracks spread across it. 

He dropped to the floor, hands clutching his head. 

And finally, a broken sound escaped him. 

A choked sob. 

I floated beside him. 

Watched everything. 

And felt nothing.