1
ROSE
I’ve been nursing the same mocktail for the last forty minutes. Cranberry, lime, soda. Heavy on the ice, whose cubes are starting to shrink and light on everything else. Amber had made it without asking. It only mean one thing—she’s noticed I haven’t touched alcohol in weeks, even though she’s never pointed it out.
She’s good at that.
I take a glance around. The bar is almost empty. Last call has come and gone. The lights are lower and the music softer. It feels like the restaurant itself is getting ready for bed. I stay perched on the stool anyway, elbows tucked in, knees crossed, bag looped around my ankle. I’ve timed my breathing to the rhythm of the room. It helps.
Across the bar from me, Amber wipes the counter in slow, lazy circles, her hair pulled into a messy bun that’s been threatening to collapse all night. She keeps glancing at me in the reflection of the mirror behind the bottles.
“You know,” she says casually, “normal people don’t treat mocktails like life rafts.”
“I’m hydrating,” I insist. “It’s a lifestyle.”
One of my flower arrangements sits tastefully behind her, in a designated spot on the counter. Tonight, the protagonists are red hyacinths and black dahlias.Playing with fire.A little private joke on the nature of this place.Notte Bianca—“white night”—is supposed to be a place that never sleeps, but cloaked in class. Respectable. Innocent, like most white flowers, on the surface. But what happens here every night is anything but innocent. The cream of the crop of New York City gathers here, elites and CEOs and socialites with money to throw out their expensive windowed walls in the sky above Manhattan. Here, deals are made that secure billions in the pockets of the same elected few every night.
Not that anyone here would understand a jab in flower language. I could arrange the flowers so they looked like middle fingers and no one would realize, because no one actuallylooksat the arrangements. They’re just part of the illusion.
Amber snorts, bringing me back to the present. “You’ve been hydrating since eight.”
“I had a long day.”
“You arrange flowers.”
“I wrestle emotional support orchids,” I correct, thinning my lips in a small smile. “It’s very taxing.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. That’s new. Amber used to be better at hiding concern. Or maybe I used to be better at pretending I didn’t notice.
She leans her forearms on the bar and lowers her voice. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Waiting.”
I glance at the clock mounted above the liquor shelves. Ten minutes to closing. Right on schedule.
“I like to walk home when the streets are quiet,” I say. “Less chaos.”
“Rose.”
I turn to her. Really turn this time.
She doesn’t push. She never does. She just watches me with that blunt, unflinching look she saves for things that matter.
“You’ve been staying late every night,” she says. “You don’t drink. You jump when the door opens. And you keep looking over your shoulder like someone’s about to grab you.”
I force a laugh that sounds awkward even to my own ears. “Occupational hazard. Florists are very aware of sudden movements. Stink bugs are very good at popping out of bouquets and buzzing straight into your eye.”
She doesn’t smile.
I take another sip of my drink. I can feel it. That pressure at the base of my skull. The awareness. Like a hand resting between my shoulder blades. I don’t need to turn around to know. I’ve felt it for months.
It’s the reason I don’t go home until I absolutely have to. Until the restaurant has emptied and there’s no possible excuse to linger there.
I have a stalker.
Or rather?—
