She doesn't respond. Doesn't look at me. Her fingers are trembling slightly as she adjusts a rose that was already perfectly positioned.
I move closer, circling the table until I'm standing beside her. Close enough to smell her shampoo—rosemary and mint, just as I remember. Close enough to see the pulse fluttering in her throat.
"You're nervous," I observe.
"I'm focused."
"You're nervous." I reach out and touch one of the roses, my fingers brushing against hers as I adjust a petal. She flinches but doesn't pull away. "There's no need to be. You're among friends here."
She does look at me then, and I see something flash in her eyes—anger, maybe, or defiance. "Is that what we are? Friends?"
"What would you prefer?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with implication. She holds my gaze for a long moment, her jaw tight, her breathing shallow.
"I'd prefer to finish my work," she says finally, turning back to the flowers. "If you'll excuse me."
A dismissal. She's dismissing me.
The audacity of it should irritate me. Instead, it delights me. She's not broken. She's not cowering. She's standing in my house, in my space, surrounded by my power, and she's telling me to leave her alone.
Magnificent.
"Of course," I say, stepping back. "I'll leave you to it. But Poppy—"
She stiffens at the use of her first name.
"—if you need anything, anything at all, don't hesitate to ask."
I leave before she can respond, carrying the image of her flushed face and trembling hands with me like a prize.
The dinner party begins at seven.
I play my role—the gracious host, the charming conversationalist, the powerful man who makes everyone feel important while revealing nothing of himself. The guests are pleased. The food is excellent. The wine flows freely.
And through it all, I watch her.
She moves through the edges of the evening like a ghost, adjusting arrangements, replacing wilted blooms, ensuring that every table is perfect. She's invisible to my guests—just another member of the staff, beneath their notice.
But she's not invisible to me. She never could be.
I track her across the room, noting every movement, every interaction. The way she smiles politely at a guest who bumps into her. The way she steps back into the shadows when someone important passes. The way she refuses, absolutely refuses, to look in my direction.
She knows I'm watching. I can tell by the tension in her shoulders, the careful way she angles her body away from me. She's aware of my attention like a physical weight, and she's doing everything she can to pretend she's not.
Around nine o'clock, I excuse myself from a conversation about real estate development and make my way to the side table where she's replacing a centerpiece that someone knocked askew.
"You've been avoiding me," I say quietly, standing close enough that my words are for her alone.
"I've been working." She doesn't look up from the flowers. "Isn't that what you're paying me for?"
"I'm paying you to be here. There's a difference."
Her hands still. When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper. "What do you want from me?"
The question again. The same question she asked at the restaurant, the same question that's been hanging between us since the moment she appeared in that doorway.
"I want you to look at me."
