***
James drops me at Dawson Floral Supply, a warehouse on the east side of the city that I've used for years. It's the perfectcover—familiar enough to be believable, far enough from The Willow café that I can slip away without being seen.
"I'll be at least an hour," I tell him as I climb out of the car. "Maybe longer. They're doing inventory, and I need to check several shipments."
"I'll wait here, miss."
"You don't have to—there's a coffee shop around the corner. I'll text when I'm done."
He hesitates, clearly uncertain. Gabriel has undoubtedly given him orders to watch me closely. But I smile, the picture of innocence, and eventually he nods.
"I'll be nearby if you need me."
I wait until his car disappears around the corner before I move. The warehouse has a back entrance that opens onto an alley—I've used it before, in my previous life, when I needed to load heavy orders without blocking the main street.
Now I use it to escape.
The taxi I called is waiting two blocks away. I slide into the back seat, give the driver the address, and spend the entire ride trying to calm my racing heart.
This is a mistake. This is a terrible mistake.
But I don't tell the driver to turn around. I don't go back to James, back to the estate, back to the golden cage that's become my life.
I need to know the truth. Whatever the cost.
The Willow café is exactly as Zach described—small, nondescript, tucked away on a quiet street where no one looks twice at strangers. The kind of place people go when they don't want to be found.
I push through the door and scan the interior. It's nearly empty—a few scattered customers, the hiss of an espresso machine, the murmur of low conversation. And there, in the corner, seated at a table with a clear view of the entrance, is Zachary Mercer.
He rises when he sees me, that warm smile spreading across his face. The smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Ms. Rivers. I'm so glad you came."
"Let's make this quick." I slide into the seat across from him, my hands clasped tightly in my lap to hide their trembling. "You said you have information about my father. That's the only reason I'm here."
"Straight to business. I appreciate that." He signals to the waitress, ordering tea for both of us, and waits until she's gone before continuing. "How much do you know about your family history, Poppy? About where you come from?"
"Very little. My mother never talked about my father. Just said he was a mistake from her past."
"And you never pushed? Never tried to find out more?"
"I tried once. When I was sixteen. I found some old papers in her closet—letters, I think. She caught me before I could read them and burned them right in front of me." The memory still stings. "She said some things are better left buried."
"Your mother was protecting you. Or trying to." Zach leans back in his chair, his expression shifting to something that looks almost like sympathy. "But you're not a child anymore. And the things she buried have a way of digging themselves up."
"Then tell me. Stop dancing around it and just tell me."
He nods slowly. "Your father's name was Dwayne Thomas."
The name means nothing to me. No flash of recognition, no buried memory surfacing. Just a name—two syllables that should carry weight but don't.
"He was a teacher," Zach continues. "At a private school called St. Augustine's College. Twenty-seven years ago, he met a young woman named Linda Marsh. Your mother. They started dating. She fell in love with him—or thought she did. He was charming, attentive, everything a young woman could want."
"But?"
"But Dwayne Thomas was not what he seemed." Zach's voice hardens. "Underneath the charm, he was a predator. He used his position at the school to torment his students—boys, mostly. Teenagers who had no one to protect them. Not with fists—Dwayne was too smart for that. He used words, manipulation, systematic cruelty designed to destroy from the inside out. He was careful, calculated, protected by powerful connections that made sure no one asked too many questions."
My stomach turns. "My mother found out?"
