"I'd prefer to keep things professional," she says.
"Would you?"
I close the distance between us, stopping just behind her. Close enough to feel the heat of her body, to smell the rosemary in her hair. Close enough to touch.
"Look at me, Poppy."
She doesn't move. Her breathing has quickened; I can see the rise and fall of her shoulders, faster than before.
"Look at me."
Slowly, she turns.
We're inches apart. I can see the fear in her eyes—but also the defiance, the anger, the stubborn refusal to cower. She's magnificent like this, trapped and terrified and still fighting.
"What do you want?" she whispers. "The truth this time."
I reach out and touch her face. Just my fingertips, brushing along her jaw, tilting her chin up so she has no choice but to meet my gaze. Her skin is soft, warm. She trembles at the contact but doesn't pull away.
"I want everything," I tell her. "I want to know every secret you've ever kept, every fear you've ever hidden, every dark thought you've never spoken aloud. I want to take you apart piece by piece and see what's underneath. I want—"
I stop myself. The words are too much, too raw. I've said more than I intended.
She stares at me, eyes wide, lips parted. Her pulse is racing—I can see it jumping in her throat.
"That's not a job description," she manages.
"No. It isn't."
The moment stretches, electric and fragile. I could kiss her. I could pull her against me and take what I want, what I've wanted since the moment I first saw her kneeling among black dahlias.
She wouldn't stop me. I can see it in her eyes—the desire she doesn't want to feel, fighting against the fear she can't escape. She's caught between them, paralyzed, waiting for me to make the choice for her.
But that's not what I want.
I want her to choose. I want her to step toward me, not away. I want her to surrender because she wants to, not because she has no other option.
So I drop my hand and step back.
The loss of contact seems to break something in her. She blinks, shakes her head slightly, like she's waking from a dream.
"I should go," she says, her voice unsteady.
"The car is waiting."
She grabs her bag and moves past me, not quite running but close. At the doorway, she stops and looks back.
"This isn't..." She swallows. "This isn't what I signed up for."
"Yes," I say quietly. "It is."
She leaves without another word.
I stand alone in the empty ballroom, surrounded by the ghosts of flowers and the echo of her presence.
Something has changed. The wall between us has cracked.
It's only a matter of time now.
