The way she held her shoulders—rigid, braced for impact. The way her eyes kept darting to the door, calculating escape routes she would never use. The way her hands trembled when she reached for her wine glass, then pulled back without drinking. The way she flinched, almost imperceptibly, every time I leaned toward her.
She's terrified of me. That's expected, even satisfying in its own way.
But she came anyway. She sat across from me and discussed terms and maintained her composure through sheer force of will. She didn't beg, didn't cry, didn't crumble the way so many others would have. When I pushed, she pushed back—small resistances, token negotiations, but resistance nonetheless.
Honesty,she said, when I asked what she thought I wanted to hear.I don't know what you want to hear.
Most people lie to me. They tell me what they think will please me, protect them, advance their interests. They're so busy performing that they forget I can see through every mask they wear.
She didn't perform. She was terrified, and she let me see it, and somehow that honesty was more compelling than any artifice could have been.
I pour myself another glass of wine and settle back in my chair, replaying the lunch in my mind.
The moment that lingers most is when she said the wordkill. She was asking about other florists, questioning why I'd chosen her, and she saidpeople who would kill for this kind of contract—and then she heard herself, heard the word hanging in the air between us, and her face went white.
For just a second, she was back in that doorway. I could see it in her eyes—the memory of blood and candlelight and the man I'd just finished destroying. The mask of professional composure slipped, and beneath it was raw, animal terror.
I liked that moment. I wanted to live inside it, to stretch it out, to see how far I could push before she broke entirely.
But I didn't push. Not today. Today was about establishing the framework, laying the groundwork, drawing her one step closer to the web I'm spinning. There will be time for pushing later.
There will be time for everything.
I finish my wine and signal for the check. The maître d' appears instantly—he knows better than to keep me waiting—and processes my card with practiced efficiency. I tipgenerously, as always. Money is a tool, and tools should be used to ensure smooth operations.
The car is waiting when I step outside. James, my driver, opens the door without a word. He's been with the family for fifteen years and knows better than to make conversation unless spoken to.
"The office," I say, sliding into the back seat.
"Yes, sir."
The city slides past the tinted windows as we navigate through the financial district. I watch the pedestrians without really seeing them, my mind still circling around the woman who sat across from me an hour ago.
Something about being in her presence was different from watching her through surveillance feeds. On camera, she's a figure moving through spaces, a collection of habits and patterns to be cataloged. In person, she's—
I search for the right word and can't find it.
Vivid.That's close, but not quite right.Real.Better, but still insufficient.
Alive.
Yes. That's it. She's alive in a way that most people aren't. Most people sleepwalk through their existence, going through motions, following scripts, never fully inhabiting their own skin. But she—even terrified, even desperate, even trapped—she waspresent. Awake. Burning with something that made me want to get closer, to warm myself at her fire.
Or to extinguish it. I'm not sure which.
The car pulls up to Ambrose Tower, and I push these thoughts aside. There's work to be done, obligations to meet, anempire to maintain. I can't afford to spend the entire afternoon mooning over a florist like some lovesick adolescent.
But as I ride the elevator to the top floor, I find my hand drifting to my pocket, touching the phone that will buzz when Hutton reports on her movements. Wondering what she's doing right now. Whether she's reading the contract. Whether she's thinking about me.
Josiah is waiting in my office.
Of course he is. My brother has an uncanny ability to appear whenever I least want to see him, as if he's installed sensors that alert him to my presence. He's standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out at the city with an expression of studied calm.
"How did it go?" he asks without turning around.
"As expected."
"That's not an answer."
