I need to take more.
I pull up the file Hutton compiled on her business. Poppy Rivers Florals. Revenue last year: barely enough to cover rent and supplies. Client list: modest but growing. Repeat customers who value her work, recommend her to friends, keep her afloat.
Each name on that list is a thread I can cut.
The Morrison family, who hired her for their daughter's wedding last spring. The Chengs, who use her for their restaurant's weekly arrangements. The Delacroix estate, where she does seasonal displays.
Small jobs, most of them. Nothing that would make headlines. But together, they're her livelihood. Her independence. Her ability to exist in the world without needing anyone else.
Without needing me.
I could make calls. Pull strings. Have competitors offer better rates, have clients receive whispered warnings about reliability issues, have her reputation slowly poisoned until no one wants to take a chance on an unknown florist with no connections.
It would take weeks, maybe months. But eventually, she'd have nothing left. No income, no prospects, no options.
And then I'd be there. Offering salvation. Offering work, money, security—everything she's lost, restored with a single word from me.
All she'd have to do is accept.
The plan unfolds in my mind, elegant and inevitable. I can see it so clearly—her resistance crumbling, her pride giving way to necessity, her hand reaching out to take what I'm offering because there's nothing else left to reach for.
But even as I map out the strategy, something nags at me. A dissatisfaction I can't quite name.
I don't just want her desperate. I don't just want her dependent.
I want her toseeme. The way she saw me through that doorway—not the mask, not the public face, but the thing underneath. I want her to look at the monster and choose it anyway.
Breaking her would be easy. Making herwantme—that's the real challenge.
And I've never been able to resist a challenge.
The Brotherhood meeting is interminable.
Henderson blusters and postures, making demands he has no leverage to enforce. Josiah handles most of the negotiation; his calm demeanor never cracking, even when Henderson's voice rises to near-shouting. I sit at the head of the table, playing my role, making the appropriate responses at the appropriate moments.
But I'm not really there.
I'm thinking about her. About the next move, the next escalation, the next thread to cut.
After the meeting, Josiah corners me in the hallway.
"You were distracted in there," he says quietly. "Henderson noticed. He'll take it as weakness."
"Henderson is an insect. His opinions don't concern me."
"They should. Insects bite when they feel threatened." Josiah studies my face, his expression troubled. "This is about the florist, isn't it? You're still—"
"I'm handling it."
"You keep saying that. But I'm not seeing evidence of handling. I'm seeing evidence of obsession spiraling out of control."
I turn to face him fully, letting him see the coldness in my eyes. "Be very careful, brother. Your concern is noted, but my patience has limits."
Josiah holds my gaze for a long moment. Then he nods slowly.
"I hope you know what you're doing," he says. "For all our sakes."
He walks away, leaving me alone in the corridor with the weight of his warning settling over my shoulders.
