Not tonight. I'm not ready tonight.
But soon.
The decision is already made. I'm just not brave enough to admit it yet.
Chapter 10 - Gabriel
The call comes on Friday afternoon.
I'm in my office at Ambrose Tower, reviewing contracts for the Hartwell acquisition that Josiah has been nagging me about for weeks. The work is tedious but necessary—the kind of detail-oriented labor that usually focuses my mind, sharpens my attention, keeps the restless energy at bay.
Today, it's doing none of those things. Today, my thoughts keep drifting to dark windows and surveillance reports and a woman who hasn't left her apartment in three days.
Hutton's updates have been consistent: she's isolating further, eating less, sleeping poorly. Her friend visited on Wednesday—the one named Bea—and stayed for several hours, but since then there's been nothing. No visitors, no outings, no sign of life except the occasional shadow passing behind drawn curtains.
She's circling the drain. Exactly as planned.
So why do I feel so restless?
My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen, expecting Josiah or perhaps Benedict with another sardonic observation about my "pet project."
The number is unfamiliar.
Except it isn't. Not to me. I've had her number memorized since before the gala, since those first days of surveillance when I learned everything about her small, careful life. I know her number the way I know her coffee order, her favorite flower vendor, the route she takes from her apartment to the market.
She's calling me.
I let it ring twice, three times. Let the anticipation build, savoring this moment I've been engineering for weeks. Then I answer, keeping my voice neutral, professional.
"Gabriel Ambrose."
A pause. I can hear her breathing—slightly unsteady, carefully controlled. She's nervous. She's terrified. And she's doing it anyway.
"Mr. Ambrose. This is Poppy Rivers."
The sound of my name in her voice sends a pulse of heat through my chest. She said it at the flower market too, but this is different. This is her reaching out. Choosing to make contact. Stepping willingly toward the trap.
"Ms. Rivers." I lean back in my chair, letting warmth seep into my tone. "What a pleasant surprise. I wasn't sure I'd hear from you."
Another pause. I can almost see her on the other end—sitting at her kitchen table, perhaps, with that dying dahlia in front of her and my card in her trembling hand. Gathering her courage. Swallowing her pride.
"You mentioned work," she says. "At the market. Private events. I wanted to... to inquire about the details."
She's trying so hard to sound professional. Businesslike. As if this is a normal conversation between a vendor and a potential client, as if there isn't a corpse and a midnight phone call and a systematic destruction of her livelihood standing between us.
I admire the effort. I want to crush it.
"Of course," I say smoothly. "I'm delighted you're considering my offer. I meant what I said—your work at the galawas extraordinary. I've been hoping to find an opportunity to collaborate further."
"What kind of events are we talking about?"
"Various. Dinner parties, charity functions, private gatherings at the estate. I entertain frequently, and I've been dissatisfied with my current floral arrangements. They lack..." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "Soul. Artistry. The quality I saw in your work."
Silence. I can hear her processing this, trying to find the trap, the hidden blade beneath the velvet words.
"And the compensation?"
"Triple your usual rate, as I mentioned. Plus expenses, of course. And a retainer for exclusivity—I'd want you available on short notice for events throughout the season."
