Dominion Hall.
Him.
I told myself it was ridiculous to connect them. Like Portia and that man were just separate pieces of a wealthy, mysterious puzzle I didn’t understand.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that Dominion Hall was not a place where things happened by accident.
I drove to the shop with my stomach tight, the morning sunlight too bright. Britney was already there, apron on, hair clipped back, humming as she refilled the front vases.
“Morning, boss!” she chirped, cheerful as always.
“Morning,” I said, forcing my voice steady.
She glanced up, eyes sharp in that way younger girls sometimes were—like they noticed everything but pretended not to. “You okay? You look… shiny.”
“Shiny,” I repeated.
“Like you’ve been running a marathon in your head.”
I laughed too quickly. “Probably.”
Britney went back to work, but the comment stuck. Because she was right.
My head had been running.
I checked emails, returned calls, scheduled deliveries. I built arrangements for customers who wanted to sayI’m sorryandI love youandplease, don’t leave me, all in the language of stems and petals. I moved through the day with practiced ease, and if anyone looked closely they might have seen the way my hands trembled sometimes when I paused.
But no one looked that closely.
People never did.
It was easier to assume Joy McKinley was fine.
At 1:57, I stepped into the back office, shut the door, and answered Portia’s call on the first ring.
“Joy,” she said, voice smooth as silk and sharp as a blade.
“Ms. Dane.”
“Portia,” she corrected, like she’d already decided we weren’t strangers anymore. “Tell me you’ve started the harvest schedule.”
“I did,” I said, flipping open my notebook. “I’ve mapped it backward from the flight time. If you can confirm the exact departure window, I can tighten it.”
“I’ll send it,” she said. “Also—make sure your packaging is … impeccable. The plane will be climate controlled, but my family doesn’t tolerate careless work.”
My spine straightened. “Neither do I.”
A pause.
Then a quiet, approving sound—almost a hum. “Good.”
I swallowed, glancing at the notes I’d taken. “I also wanted to ask—are you expecting full installations? Arch pieces, aisle markers?—”
“Yes,” Portia said. “And I want it to look like Charleston walked into Montana and didn’t apologize for it.”
The image sparked something in me—pride, relief. Something safe.
“I can do that,” I said quietly. “I want to do that.”
