Barricade. She's pushed furniture against her door, trying to keep the world out. Trying to keepmeout.
The image pleases me more than it should.
"Continue monitoring. I want to know the moment anything changes."
"Yes, sir."
Hutton disconnects, and I'm left alone in my study with the morning light streaming through tall windows and the satisfaction of a plan unfolding exactly as intended.
She's trapped. Isolated. Her business is crumbling, her support systems are strained, and her ability to function in the world is deteriorating by the hour. Every move I make pushes her further into a corner, and soon—very soon—she'll realize that the only way out is through me.
I should feel triumphant. This is what I wanted, after all. This is the game I've been playing since the moment I saw her kneeling among black dahlias in my ballroom.
But the triumph feels hollow somehow. Distant. Like watching a fire through glass—you can see the flames, feel a ghost of the heat, but you're not trulythere.
I want to be there.
I want to see her face when she realizes how completely I've surrounded her. I want to watch the fear and the fury war in her eyes. I want to be close enough to smell her shampoo, to feel the heat of her skin, to hear the catch in her breath when she understands that there's no escape.
Surveillance feeds and secondhand reports aren't enough anymore.
I needmore.
The door to my study opens without a knock—there's only one person in this house who would dare—and Benedict saunters in like he owns the place.
My youngest brother is dressed for a day of leisure: dark jeans, a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, his hair artfully disheveled in that way that takes an hour to achieve. He's holding a tumbler of whiskey despite the early hour because Benedict has never met a rule he didn't want to break.
"Brother," he says, dropping into the chair across from my desk. "You look like a man with a secret."
"I have many secrets. So do you."
"Yes, but mine are fun." He swirls his whiskey, studying me with those sharp eyes that see more than he lets on. "Josiah tells me you've developed an... interest. A florist, of all things."
"Josiah talks too much."
"Josiah worries too much. There's a difference." Benedict takes a sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving my face. "So. Tell me about her."
"There's nothing to tell."
"Liar." He grins, delighted. "I haven't seen you this distracted since... actually, I'veneverseen you this distracted. The great Gabriel Ambrose, brought low by a woman who arranges flowers for a living. It's almost poetic."
I keep my expression neutral, but irritation prickles beneath my skin. Benedict has always known exactly which buttons to push—it's his greatest talent and his most annoying trait.
"She witnessed something at the gala," I say flatly. "I'm managing the situation."
"Managing it. Is that what we're calling it now?" Benedict laughs. "Josiah says you've had her under surveillance for over a week. That you approached her at a flower market like some lovesick schoolboy. That youcalledher, Gabriel. On the telephone. Like a person with feelings."
"I'm establishing control."
"You'reobsessing." He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his amusement sharpening into something more serious. "I'm not judging, brother. God knows I've had my share of fixations. But this one seems... different. More intense. Morepersonal."
I don't respond. There's nothing I could say that wouldn't confirm his suspicions.
"Let me meet her," Benedict says.
"No."
"Why not? I'm charming. I'm delightful. I could help with your little project—"
