"Sir?" Hutton's voice, alert despite the late hour.
"The florist has a funeral arrangement due Monday. She dropped her supplies this morning—lost everything between the market and her apartment."
"I'm aware, sir. My team tracked her route."
"Good. I want you to contact the client. The grieving family. Offer them an alternative—better flowers, premium service, no charge. Tell them their usual florist had a personal emergency and couldn't complete the order."
A pause. "You want to take the job from her."
"I want to create an opportunity. If she loses this client, if word spreads that she's unreliable, she'll be more receptive to other offers." I smile in the darkness. "Specifically, my offer."
"Understood, sir. I'll handle it tonight."
"One more thing. Increase surveillance on her mother. I want to know if Linda Rivers makes any unusual movements—phone calls, trips, visitors. If she contacts her daughter, I want to know what they discuss."
"We don't have her residence wired for audio, sir."
"Then fix that."
"Yes, sir."
I end the call and lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.
Linda Rivers has secrets. Josiah is right about that much. But secrets have a way of revealing themselves, given enough time and pressure.
And I have plenty of both.
Poppy will come to me. Willingly or not, sooner or later, she'll find herself in my orbit with nowhere else to go. Her business will falter. Her friends will drift away. Her mother's paranoia will drive a wedge between them.
And when she has nothing left—no clients, no support, no options—I'll be there. Offering work. Offering money. Offering a place in my world.
Offering everything she needs.
By the time she realizes what she's given up in return, it will be too late.
I pick up the sketch one more time, tracing the serpent's coils with my fingertip. In the dim light, the dahlia seems to glow—dark petals cradled by darker scales, two creatures intertwined in something that could be protection or possession.
Both, perhaps. In the end, they're the same thing.
Soon,I think.Soon you'll stop fighting. Soon you'll see what I see.
We were always meant to find each other.
And I never let go of what's mine.
Chapter 7 - Poppy
The morning after his phone call, sunlight forces its way through the gaps in my curtains like an unwelcome guest.
I'm still on the couch where I spent the night, knees pulled to my chest, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders that did nothing to stop the shaking. The apartment is silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic—ordinary noises that should be comforting but aren't.
His voice is still in my head. That smooth, intimate tone.I think you know what I want.It surfaces without warning, making my skin crawl, making me glance at the door to confirm the deadbolt is still engaged.
It is. I've checked it a dozen times since he hung up.
The bookshelf I pushed in front of the door last night looks absurd in the morning light—a pathetic barricade that wouldn't stop anyone determined to get in. But I don't move it. I can't bring myself to move it.
On my kitchen table, the dahlia catches the light filtering through the curtains. Its dark petals are still perfect, still gleaming, still alive despite everything. I've been keeping it in fresh water, trimming the stem, treating it with more care than anything else in my apartment.
