She doesn't move. For a long moment, I think she's going to refuse. Then, slowly, she raises her head and meets my eyes.
The impact is visceral. Heat and fear and something darker, all tangled together in her gaze. She's terrified of me. She's furious at me. And underneath it all, there's something else—a pull, a current, a recognition that matches my own.
"There you are," I murmur. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten how."
"I haven't forgotten anything." Her voice is hard. "Including what I saw in this house."
"I know you haven't. That's what makes this interesting."
"Interesting." She laughs, a bitter sound. "Is that what I am to you? Interesting?"
"Among other things."
A guest approaches—Henderson, of all people, wanting to discuss some tedious detail of our ongoing negotiations. I turn to deal with him, and by the time I look back, Poppy has vanished into the crowd.
I let her go. For now.
The guests begin leaving around eleven. Handshakes and air kisses, promises to call, the ritual farewells of people who do business in shadows. I stand at the door and play my part, smiling and nodding, counting the minutes until they're gone.
Finally, the last car pulls away, and the house falls quiet.
The staff are cleaning up, moving through the rooms with practiced efficiency. Eleanor appears with a tablet, wanting to debrief on the evening, but I wave her away.
"Tomorrow," I say. "I need to speak with Ms. Rivers first."
Eleanor's expression remains professionally neutral, but I catch the flicker of curiosity in her eyes. She knows better than to ask questions.
"Of course, sir. She's in the ballroom, packing up her supplies."
I find her exactly where Eleanor said she'd be.
The ballroom is dimmer now, most of the candles extinguished, the tables stripped of their linens. She's alone, kneeling beside a large bag, carefully wrapping the tools of her trade. Her back is to me, and she doesn't hear me approach.
I stop a few feet away and watch her work. Her movements are slower now, tired. Her hair has come loose from its knot, dark strands falling around her face. She looks smaller than she did earlier, diminished somehow.
Vulnerable.
"You did beautiful work tonight."
She jumps at my voice, spinning around to face me. Her hand goes to her chest, pressing against her heart.
"Jesus." She breathes. "You scared me."
"I apologize." I don't move closer. Not yet. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"Yes, you did." She stands, brushing off her knees. "You love startling people. It gives you a sense of power."
The observation is accurate enough to make me smile. "You're learning."
"I'm observant." She turns back to her bag, zipping it closed with more force than necessary. "Is there something you needed, Mr. Ambrose? I was about to leave."
"Gabriel."
"What?"
"My name is Gabriel. You should use it."
She stills, her back to me. I can see the tension in her spine, the rigid set of her shoulders.
