Chapter 10 - Gabriel
The call comes on Friday afternoon.
I'm in my office at Ambrose Tower, reviewing contracts for the Hartwell acquisition that Josiah has been nagging me about for weeks. The work is tedious but necessary—the kind of detail-oriented labor that usually focuses my mind, sharpens my attention, keeps the restless energy at bay.
Today, it's doing none of those things. Today, my thoughts keep drifting to dark windows and surveillance reports and a woman who hasn't left her apartment in three days.
Hutton's updates have been consistent: she's isolating further, eating less, sleeping poorly.
Her friend visited on Wednesday—the one named Bea—and stayed for several hours, but since then there's been nothing.
No visitors, no outings, no sign of life except the occasional shadow passing behind drawn curtains.
She's circling the drain. Exactly as planned.
So why do I feel so restless?
My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen, expecting Josiah or perhaps Benedict with another sardonic observation about my "pet project."
The number is unfamiliar.
Except it isn't. Not to me. I've had her number memorized since before the gala, since those first days of surveillance when I learned everything about her small, careful life.
I know her number the way I know her coffee order, her favorite flower vendor, the route she takes from her apartment to the market.
She's calling me.
I let it ring twice, three times. Let the anticipation build, savoring this moment I've been engineering for weeks. Then I answer, keeping my voice neutral, professional.
"Gabriel Ambrose."
A pause. I can hear her breathing—slightly unsteady, carefully controlled. She's nervous. She's terrified. And she's doing it anyway.
"Mr. Ambrose. This is Poppy Rivers."
The sound of my name in her voice sends a pulse of heat through my chest. She said it at the flower market too, but this is different. This is her reaching out. Choosing to make contact. Stepping willingly toward the trap.
"Ms. Rivers." I lean back in my chair, letting warmth seep into my tone. "What a pleasant surprise. I wasn't sure I'd hear from you."
Another pause. I can almost see her on the other end—sitting at her kitchen table, perhaps, with that dying dahlia in front of her and my card in her trembling hand. Gathering her courage. Swallowing her pride.
"You mentioned work," she says. "At the market. Private events. I wanted to... to inquire about the details."
She's trying so hard to sound professional. Businesslike. As if this is a normal conversation between a vendor and a potential client, as if there isn't a corpse and a midnight phone call and a systematic destruction of her livelihood standing between us.
I admire the effort. I want to crush it.
"Of course," I say smoothly. "I'm delighted you're considering my offer. I meant what I said—your work at the gala was extraordinary. I've been hoping to find an opportunity to collaborate further."
"What kind of events are we talking about?"
"Various. Dinner parties, charity functions, private gatherings at the estate. I entertain frequently, and I've been dissatisfied with my current floral arrangements. They lack..." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "Soul. Artistry. The quality I saw in your work."
Silence. I can hear her processing this, trying to find the trap, the hidden blade beneath the velvet words.
"And the compensation?"
"Triple your usual rate, as I mentioned. Plus expenses, of course. And a retainer for exclusivity—I'd want you available on short notice for events throughout the season."
"Exclusivity?"
"I don't like to share." I let the words hang for a moment, heavy with meaning. "My florist, my caterer, my staff—I prefer dedicated relationships. Loyalty, Ms. Rivers. It's something I value highly."
Another long pause. When she speaks again, her voice is tighter, the professional facade cracking slightly.
"That's a significant commitment."
"It is. Which is why I'd like to discuss it in person." I glance at my calendar, though I already know my schedule by heart. "Are you available tomorrow? I could have my assistant arrange lunch. There's a restaurant I favor—quiet, private. We could talk through the details without interruption."
I hear her sharp intake of breath. She wasn't expecting this. She thought she could handle it over the phone, keep her distance, maintain some illusion of control.
But I want to see her face. I want to watch her try to maintain that fragile composure while sitting across from me, close enough to touch. I want to smell her shampoo, count her breaths, and see the fear flickering in her eyes.
"Tomorrow," she repeats slowly.
"If that works for you. If not, I'm flexible. But I'd prefer sooner rather than later—I have an event coming up, and I'd like to know whether I can count on your services."
The pressure is deliberate. Gentle, but unmistakable. Decide now. Commit now. Step into my world now.
"Tomorrow is fine," she says finally. "What time?"
"Noon. I'll text you the address." I pause, letting my voice soften. "I'm looking forward to it, Ms. Rivers. Truly."
"I'll see you then, Mr. Ambrose."
She hangs up before I can respond.
I set the phone down on my desk and stare at it for a long moment, processing what just happened.
She called me. She's coming to meet me. Tomorrow, she'll sit across from me at a table, and we'll discuss arrangements—floral arrangements, professional arrangements, the terms of her surrender.
It's everything I wanted.
So why does it feel incomplete?
I stand and move to the window, looking out over the city spread below me.
From this height, the people on the streets are insects, their lives small and insignificant, their concerns beneath my notice.
I've always liked this view. It reminds me of what I am, where I stand, the distance between me and ordinary humanity.
But lately, one ordinary life has consumed my attention. One woman, with her dark hair and her trembling hands and her sketches of serpents whispering to flowers.
She's coming to me. Willingly—or as willingly as someone with no other options can be.
That should be enough. That should satisfy the hunger that's been gnawing at me since the moment she appeared in that doorway.
But it isn't.
I don't just want her presence. I don't just want her professional services, her time, her proximity.
I want her to choose me.
Not because I've left her no alternatives. Not because I've systematically destroyed every other option until I'm the only lifeline remaining. I want her to look at me—really look, seeing exactly what I am—and decide that she wants me anyway.
The way she looked at me through that doorway. That flash of recognition before the fear took over.
She saw the monster. And for one moment, she didn't look away.
I want that moment back. I want to live inside it, extend it, make it permanent. I want her to see me and stay. To understand me and choose me. To accept the serpent into her garden and let it coil around her roots.
Is that possible? Can prey ever truly choose the predator?
I don't know. But I intend to find out.
The door to my office opens without a knock. Benedict, of course, sauntering in with his usual disregard for boundaries.
"Brother," he says, dropping into the chair across from my desk. "You look like a cat who's caught a particularly juicy mouse."
"Do I."
"Mmm. Josiah said you've been in here all afternoon, staring out the window and smiling to yourself. It's unnerving the staff." He stretches his legs out, crossing them at the ankle. "Let me guess—the florist?"
"Her name is Poppy."
"Poppy." Benedict rolls the name around like he's tasting wine. "How delightfully pastoral. Is she coming around, then? Accepting your generous offer of employment?"
"We're meeting tomorrow. To discuss terms."
"Terms." He laughs. "Is that what we're calling it? I thought the term was 'entrapment.' Or perhaps 'obsessive pursuit.' Something with a bit more accuracy."
"Your concern is noted."
"I'm not concerned. I'm entertained." He leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes bright with interest. "Josiah thinks you're losing your mind. He's been running background checks, building contingency plans, preparing for the moment when this all blows up in your face. Very responsible of him."
"And what do you think?"
Benedict considers the question, his expression shifting from amusement to something more thoughtful.
"I think you're playing a dangerous game," he says. "But I've never known you to be stupid about danger. If you want this woman badly enough to risk Brotherhood scrutiny, there must be a reason." He pauses. "I'm just not sure you know what that reason is."
The observation lands closer to home than I'd like. I keep my expression neutral.
"I know exactly what I'm doing."
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're making an awful lot of moves for a woman who should be a non-issue by now. If she were anyone else—any other witness, any other loose end—she'd already be dealt with. Quietly, efficiently, the way we've always handled these things."
He's right. He's absolutely right, and I hate that he can see it so clearly.
"She's different," I say.
"Obviously. The question is why." Benedict stands, straightening his jacket. "I'm not going to lecture you, brother. That's Josiah's job, and frankly, he's better at it. But I will say this: be careful. You're not the only one watching her. And if the Brotherhood decides she's a liability..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.
"I'll handle it," I say.
"I'm sure you will." He moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob. "One more thing. This meeting tomorrow—where is it?"
"Ristorante Umberto. The private dining room."
"Nice choice. Intimate. Secluded." He smiles, but there's something sharp beneath it. "I assume you won't mind if I happen to be dining there as well? Just to observe. Satisfy my curiosity about the woman who's captured my brother's attention so thoroughly."
"Stay away from her, Benedict."
The words come out harder than I intended, edged with a possessiveness I can't quite control. Benedict's eyebrows rise.
"My, my," he murmurs. "It really is serious, isn't it?"
"I mean it. She's not a toy for you to play with."
"No. She's a toy for you to play with." He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Don't worry, brother. I'll keep my distance. For now."
He leaves, and I'm alone with my thoughts and the vast indifference of the city sprawled below.
Benedict is right about one thing: I don't fully understand why she's different.
Why I can't treat her like any other loose end, any other problem to be solved and forgotten.
Why the thought of her—sitting in her dark apartment, keeping my dahlia alive, gathering the courage to call me—makes something shift in my chest that I don't have words for.
It's not love. I'm not capable of love, not in any way that normal people would recognize. Whatever softness I might have possessed was burned out of me long ago, in a groundskeeper's cottage at St. Augustine's, with my hands around a monster's throat.
But it's not nothing, either.
It's hunger. It's fascination. It's the sense that she sees something in me that no one else has ever seen—or ever wanted to see.
And tomorrow, she's going to sit across from me and pretend this is a business meeting. She's going to shake my hand and discuss terms and try to maintain her dignity while I watch her every breath, every blink, every micro-expression of fear and defiance.
I'm going to watch her fight herself. Fight the terror that tells her to run and the desperation that tells her to stay. Fight the darkness inside her that recognized the darkness inside me.
And eventually—maybe not tomorrow, maybe not for weeks or months—she's going to stop fighting.
She's going to give in.
I pull out my phone and text her the restaurant address, adding a brief message: Looking forward to tomorrow. Please don't be late.
A minute later, my phone buzzes with her response. Just two words: I won't.
I stare at those words for a long time, reading between the letters, looking for something I can't quite name.
She won't be late. She's committed. She's stepping into my world, even though every instinct must be screaming at her to run.
Brave. Foolish. Desperate.
Mine.
I set the phone aside and return to the window, watching the sun sink toward the horizon, painting the city in shades of gold and crimson. The light catches the glass of the surrounding towers, turning them into pillars of fire.
Tomorrow feels very far away and impossibly close at the same time.
I think about what I'll wear. What I'll say.
How I'll position myself to watch her face when she walks through the door and sees me waiting for her.
The private dining room at Umberto's is perfect for this—intimate without being claustrophobic, elegant without being ostentatious.
A space designed for deals made in whispers and secrets exchanged over expensive wine.
She'll be nervous. She'll try to hide it, but I'll see it in the way she holds her shoulders, the way her eyes move, the way her hands tremble when she reaches for her water glass.
I'll see everything, because I've been trained to see everything, because noticing the small signs of weakness is how predators survive.
But I don't want her weak. Not really. Not completely.
I want her to be strong enough to fight. Strong enough to resist. Strong enough that when she finally surrenders, it means something.
The game is about to change. The distance I've maintained—the surveillance, the phone calls, the careful destruction of her life from afar—is about to collapse. Tomorrow, she'll be real. Tangible. Close enough to touch.
And then we'll see what happens when the serpent finally gets close enough to whisper.
I already know what I want to say.
The question is whether she's ready to hear it.
Outside my window, the sun disappears below the horizon, and the city lights begin to flicker on like stars being born.
Somewhere out there, in her small apartment with its barricaded door and its drawn curtains, she's preparing for tomorrow.
Choosing what to wear. Rehearsing what to say.
Steeling herself for an encounter she knows she can't win.
She's thinking about me. I can feel it, even from this distance.
And I'm thinking about her. Only her. Always her.
Tomorrow can't come fast enough.