I've been counting the hours since her email confirmed attendance. Ninety-six hours of waiting, of preparation, of imagining her back in my space where she belongs. The anticipation has been almost unbearable—a constant hum beneath my skin, a hunger that no amount of distraction can quiet.
The dinner party is real, of course. Eight guests, carefully selected business associates who expect excellent food, fine wine, and the kind of discreet networking that happens at these events. I've hosted dozens of similar gatherings over the years, and I could manage them in my sleep.
But tonight is different. Tonight she'll be here.
I spend the morning in my study, pretending to work while watching the clock. Contracts go unsigned. Emails go unanswered. Josiah calls twice about the Henderson situation, and I let both calls go to voicemail.
None of it matters. Not today.
At 3:45, my phone buzzes with a message from the gate:Ms. Rivers has arrived.
Fifteen minutes early. Professional. Prepared.
Nervous.
I smile and close my laptop, abandoning any pretense of productivity. The real business of the evening is about to begin.
I don't go to meet her. That would be too eager, too obvious. Instead, I position myself in the library, which has a clear sightline to the entrance hall through a doorway I've leftstrategically ajar. I want to watch her arrive. I want to see her face when she steps back into this house.
The front door opens, and there she is.
She's dressed for work—simple black trousers, a soft gray blouse, her hair pulled back in a practical knot. She's carrying a large bag of supplies, and there's a determined set to her shoulders, a professional mask firmly in place.
But I see what she's trying to hide. The way her eyes dart around the entrance hall, lingering on the serpent carvings, the shadowed doorways, the corridor that leads to the east wing. She's remembering. She can't help but remember.
Her face is paler than it was at the restaurant. There are shadows under her eyes that makeup can't quite conceal. She's not sleeping well.
Good. Neither am I.
Eleanor, my assistant, appears to greet her. I watch them exchange words I can't hear—probably logistics, schedules, the mundane details of the evening's arrangements. Poppy nods, professional and composed, but her hands are gripping her bag too tightly. White-knuckled.
Eleanor leads her toward the ballroom, and I let them go. There will be time. The evening is long, and she's not going anywhere.
She's not going anywhere ever again.
I stay in the library for another twenty minutes, forcing myself to be patient. Then I make my way to the ballroom, taking the long route through the west corridor so I can approach without warning.
She's already transformed the space.
The tables are set with white linens and crystal, and she's working on the centerpieces—low arrangements of cream roses and trailing greenery, elegant and understated. Her movements are quick and precise, her focus absolute. She's good at this. Better than good.
I stop in the doorway and watch her work.
She doesn't notice me at first. She's too absorbed in what she's doing, her fingers moving among the stems with the same tenderness I observed at the gala. She talks to the flowers as she works—not words I can hear, just soft murmurs, like she's coaxing them into place.
It's oddly intimate, watching her like this. Like I'm seeing something private, something she wouldn't show me if she knew I was there.
Then she looks up, and our eyes meet.
The effect is immediate. Her whole body goes rigid, her hands freezing mid-motion. The color drains from her face, then rushes back in a flush that spreads from her cheeks down her neck.
"Mr. Ambrose." Her voice is steady, but I can hear the effort it costs her. "I didn't realize you were there."
"Please, don't let me interrupt." I step into the room, moving closer with deliberate slowness. "I just wanted to see how things were progressing."
"Fine. Everything's fine." She turns back to the flowers, but her movements are jerky now, her concentration broken. "I should have the centerpieces finished within the hour. The entryway arrangements are already done."
"I saw them. They're beautiful."
