She flinches. A full-body jerk, like I've struck her. The flowers in her arms tremble, and for a moment I think she's going to drop them.
Then she looks up and sees my face.
The blood drains from her cheeks. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Her eyes go wide with a terror so pure, so absolute, that I have to suppress a smile.
There you are.
"I'm so sorry," I say, keeping my voice warm, apologetic. "I didn't mean to startle you. Are you all right?"
She stares at me. Her mouth works silently. I can see her mind racing, trying to reconcile what she's seeing with what sheexpected. I'm not wearing a tuxedo. I don't have blood on my hands. I'm just a man in a crowded market, offering a polite apology.
But she knows. Sheknows.
"I..." She swallows hard. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure? You've gone quite pale." I tilt my head, letting concern crease my brow. "Here, let me help you with those."
I reach for the flowers in her arms. She jerks back, a reflexive movement, and one of the bouquets slips from her grip. I catch it before it hits the ground—the white roses, wrapped in brown paper, the funeral arrangement.
"Careful," I say, handing it back to her. My fingers brush hers in the exchange. She shudders.
"Thank you." Her voice is barely a whisper. She clutches the flowers to her chest like a shield, like they could protect her from anything.
"Wait." I let recognition dawn on my face, slow and warm. "I know you. You're the florist from the gala last weekend, aren't you? The Dark Masquerade?"
She flinches at the name. A tiny movement, almost imperceptible, but I catch it.
"Yes," she manages. "I did the arrangements."
"I thought so. They were extraordinary." I smile—not the smile I wore in the study, but the one I use for charity dinners and board meetings. The one that makes people trust me. "I'm Gabriel Ambrose. I don't think we were properly introduced."
I extend my hand.
She stares at it like I'm offering her a serpent. Which, in a sense, I am.
The moment stretches. Around us, the market continues its bustle—vendors calling out prices, customers haggling, the mundane commerce of ordinary life. No one notices the woman frozen in front of me, trembling, her face the color of chalk.
No one sees what's really happening here.
Slowly, as if moving through water, she shifts the flowers to one arm and takes my hand.
Her skin is cold. Her grip is weak. But she does it. She shakes my hand and doesn't scream, doesn't run, doesn't call for help.
Good girl.
"Poppy Rivers," she says. Her voice is steadier now, though I can hear the effort it costs her. "It's nice to meet you."
"The pleasure is mine." I hold her hand a beat longer than necessary, feeling her pulse flutter against my palm like a trapped bird. "I have to say, I've been thinking about your work all week. The dahlias, especially. Black dahlias are so difficult to source, and yours were perfect."
Something shifts in her expression. A flicker of something beneath the fear—anger, maybe, or the beginning of understanding.
She knows I'm playing with her. She knows I left that dahlia on her doorstep.
And she knows there's nothing she can do about it.
"Thank you," she says. "I'm glad you liked them."
"Liked them? I was enchanted." I release her hand, but I don't step back. I want her to feel my presence, my proximity,the way I'm taking up space in her world. "In fact, I was hoping to find a florist for some upcoming events. Private affairs, very exclusive. Your work would be perfect."
