"You mentioned it last week. Don't you remember?"
Did I? I can't remember. The past few weeks have blurred together, one crisis bleeding into the next.
"Right," I say. "Yes. It's going well."
"Is it?" Another pause, longer this time. "Poppy, I need you to be honest with me. Is everything okay? Are you safe?"
The question lands like a punch to the gut.Are you safe?No. I'm not safe. I haven't been safe since the moment I walked into that gala.
"I'm fine, Mom. Why wouldn't I be?"
"I don't know. I just... I have a feeling. You know how I get feelings."
I do know. Her feelings have haunted our whole lives—the paranoia, the constant vigilance, the way she always seemed to be waiting for something terrible to happen. I used to think she was overreacting. Now I'm not so sure.
"Everything is fine," I tell her. "I promise."
She doesn't believe me. I can hear it in her silence, in the careful way she changes the subject. But she doesn't push, and I don't volunteer anything more.
After we hang up, I sit at my kitchen table and stare at the dahlia.
Are you safe?
No.
And the worst part is, I'm not sure I want to be.
On Monday, another assignment comes.
The email is from Eleanor, crisp and professional: a consultation at the Ambrose Group offices downtown. Mr. Ambrose is planning a charity gala for next month and would like my input on the floral design.
A consultation. In his office. Just the two of us, presumably.
I should say no. I should cite illness, a scheduling conflict, or anything to avoid being alone with him again. Every instinct I have screams that this is a trap, that he's engineering another intimate encounter, that the professional pretext is just that—a pretext.
But the money. The contract. The rent that's due in a week.
And underneath all of that, the treacherous whisper:I want to see him again.
I hate that whisper. I hate myself for listening to it.
I type my response:Confirmed. What time?
The answer comes within minutes:2:00 PM. I look forward to seeing you.
Tuesday afternoon, I stand in the lobby of Ambrose Tower and try to remember how to breathe.
The building is all glass and steel, soaring toward the sky like a monument to power. People move through the lobby with purpose, expensive shoes clicking against marble floors, their faces set in expressions of professional determination.
I don't belong here. I'm a florist from a cramped apartment, playing dress-up in a world that could swallow me whole.
But I'm here anyway. Because he summoned me, and I came.
The elevator takes me to the top floor. A receptionist checks my name against a list and directs me down a corridor lined with abstract art—dark, violent pieces that probably cost more than I make in a year.
His office is at the end of the hall. The door is open.
He's standing by the window when I enter, silhouetted against the city skyline. He turns at my approach, and the sight of him hits me like a physical blow. Dark suit, white shirt, that face that could belong to an angel or a devil.
