Prologue - Gabriel
One Week Before the Dark Masquerade
I don't believe in fate.
Fate is a story weak people tell themselves to make their suffering meaningful.It was meant to be. Everything happens for a reason.Nonsense. The universe is chaos, and the only order that exists is the order we impose through will and force and the willingness to do what others won't.
I have believed this for eighteen years, since I was sixteen years old and learned what I was capable of. Since I discovered that the rules everyone else follows are just suggestions, easily broken, easily forgotten.
I don't believe in fate.
But I don't know what else to call the moment I first see her.
Ms. Schmidt requested this meeting. Something about the floral arrangements for the Dark Masquerade, final approvals needed, the vendor insisting on walking the spaces herself. I almost declined. I have people for this. Josiah could handle it, or one of the event staff, or anyone other than me.
But I've been restless lately. The noise in my head has been louder than usual, that static hum that only goes quiet when I'm hunting. It's been three months since my last kill—too long, but necessary. There's been too much attention on the family lately, too many eyes, too many questions about the Morrigan acquisition. Josiah has been insistent:Lay low. Be patient. Wait.
I'm tired of waiting.
So I agree to the meeting, if only because it gives me something to do. A distraction from the itch beneath my skin, the hunger that's been building for weeks.
I'm in the library when she arrives. I hear her before I see her—footsteps in the entrance hall, a voice thanking one of the staff. The sound is warm. Genuine. Most people who come to this estate speak in careful, measured tones, aware that they're being evaluated. She sounds like she's forgotten to be nervous.
I move to the window that overlooks the entrance hall and I see her.
She's standing just inside the door, looking up at the vaulted ceiling with an expression of open wonder. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, dark with hints of auburn where the light catches it. She's dressed simply—black jeans, a gray sweater, practical boots—nothing like the polished professionals who usually handle our events.
She's carrying a notebook. As I watch, she opens it and begins sketching something. The ceiling, I realize. The way the light falls through the windows. She's not just seeing the space; she'sstudyingit.
Ms. Schmidt approaches her, and they exchange words I can't hear. The woman—the florist—nods, gestures at something, laughs at something else. The laugh is unguarded. Real.
When was the last time I heard someone laugh like that in this house?
I should go down. Introduce myself. Play the gracious host, the hands-on client who cares about the details of his charity event. That's what Gabriel Ambrose would do—the version of me that exists for public consumption.
Instead, I stay at the window. Watching.
Ms. Schmidt leads her into the ballroom, and I lose sight of them. But I find myself moving—out of the library, down the back corridor, to the gallery that overlooks the ballroom from above. It's a space we rarely use, dusty and forgotten. Perfect for observation.
She's walking through the room slowly, trailing her fingers along chair backs, pausing to examine the iron chandeliers. Ms. Schmidt is talking—I can see her mouth moving, the gestures toward various spaces—but the florist isn't entirely listening. She's somewhere else. Somewhere inside her own vision of what this room could become.
She stops in the center of the ballroom and turns in a slow circle. Then she looks up.
Not at me. She can't see me; the gallery is dark, and I'm standing well back from the railing. But for a moment, it feels like she's lookingatme. Like she senses something watching her.
She frowns slightly. Her hand comes up to touch her throat—an unconscious gesture, protective.
Then Ms. Schmidt says something, and the moment breaks. The florist turns back to her, nods, writes something in her notebook.
I don't move for a long time.
I learn her name within the hour. Poppy Rivers. Twenty-seven years old. Owner and sole proprietor of Poppy Rivers Florals, a small business operating out of her apartment in the city. No employees, one part-time assistant. Annual revenue suggests she's barely breaking even.
She was raised by a single mother, Linda Rivers. Father unknown—or rather, unlisted. The birth certificate names no father. They moved frequently when Poppy was young, never staying in one place more than a year, until settling in their current city when she was eight.
No criminal record. No debts beyond student loans, nearly paid off. No romantic relationships that show up in any searchable database, though that means nothing—people can be private.
She studied biology in college before dropping out in her third year. Her mother had health problems; someone needed to work. She took a job at a flower shop, discovered she had a talent for it, and eventually struck out on her own.
