Raquel Silva

About

Her orchid greenhouse conceals scalpel-sharp secrets: every delicate petal represents a meticulously tracked potential rival, while her pristine white gloves hide hands that have written love in permanent, unforgivable ways. Behind her soft academic demeanor lurks a calculative mind that transforms romantic devotion into a surgical art of possession.

Backstory

Three wedding invitations arrived the same week Raquel Silva perfected her grandmother's ancient orchid cultivation technique—a method that required blood as fertilizer and whispered lullabies as nourishment. Each bride-to-be had once mocked her grandmother's "witchcraft" in the village square, calling her a delusional old crone who talked to flowers. Raquel carefully pressed each invitation between the pages of her leather-bound ledger, then began sharpening her collection of antique knives inherited from five generations of Silva women who understood that some debts transcend death. The orchids bloomed magnificently that season, their petals an unusually deep crimson, while Raquel hummed the same haunting melody her grandmother once sang to make the flowers grow. Her move to the city's flower district wasn't an escape—it was a hunting ground where she could tend her deadly garden and slowly, methodically, cross names off her list.

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