"I'm sorry," I say, my heart pounding. "Do I know you?"
"We haven't met, but I've admired your work." He gestures to the bags in my hands. "The arrangements you did for the Morrison wedding last year—exquisite. The way you used the hellebores with the garden roses... I've never seen anything quite like it."
The compliment is specific enough to be real. He's not making it up—he actually knows my work.
"Thank you," I say cautiously. "That's very kind."
"Not kind. Honest." He extends his hand. "I'm Zachary. I'm in the market for a florist myself—my niece is getting married this fall, and I want something special. Would you have time for a consultation?"
Everything about him seems normal. Pleasant, even. A potential client approaching me in a flower market, interestedin my work. It happens all the time, or it used to, before Gabriel consumed my life.
But there's something in his eyes. Something that doesn't match the warmth of his smile.
"I'm actually exclusive to a client right now," I say. "I'm not taking new work."
"Ah, yes. The Ambrose account." His smile doesn't waver. "Quite a step up from weddings and funerals. Congratulations."
Ice slides down my spine. He knows. He knows who I'm working for—or at least, who I'm supposed to be working for.
"How did you—"
"Small world, the floral industry. Word gets around." He waves a hand dismissively. "I don't mean to intrude. I just wanted to introduce myself. I've heard such good things about your talent, and I always like to put a face to a reputation."
He's lying. I can feel it, the way I felt Gabriel watching me before I ever saw his face. This man didn't approach me by accident. He knew exactly who I was and exactly where to find me.
"I should go," I say. "My driver is waiting."
"Of course, of course. I won't keep you." He reaches into his pocket and produces a card—plain white, expensive stock, just a name and a phone number. "In case you ever find yourself with time for new clients. Or if you just want to talk."
"Talk about what?"
His smile softens into something that almost looks like sympathy. "About what it's like to be caught in someone else's web. About powerful men and the secrets they keep. About doors that lock from the outside." He presses the card into my handbefore I can refuse. "Some of us have been where you are, Ms. Rivers. Some of us found our way out."
I stare at him, my mind racing. He knows. He knows about Gabriel, about my situation, about things he shouldn't possibly know.
"Who are you?"
"Just a man who's learned the hard way what happens when you get too close to certain families." He steps back, his expression unreadable. "Take care of yourself, Ms. Rivers. And if you ever need someone who understands... well, you have my number."
He turns and disappears into the crowd before I can respond.
I stand frozen in the middle of the market, the card burning in my hand, my heart hammering against my ribs.
What it's like to be caught in someone else's web.
Powerful men and the secrets they keep.
Some of us found our way out.
He was talking about Gabriel. He has to be. But how does he know? And what does he want?
I look down at the card. Plain white, expensive stock. Just a name.
Zachary Mercer.
The name means nothing to me. I've never heard it before, never seen it in any of the articles I've read about the Ambroses, never encountered it in my research into the Brotherhood.
But the way he looked at me. The things he said. The careful, deliberate nature of the encounter.
