Chapter 21 - Poppy
The estate is starting to feel like home, and that terrifies me more than anything else.
I've been here for five days now. Five days of waking in Gabriel's bed, of wandering through endless corridors, of eating meals prepared by silent staff who never meet my eyes.
Five days of his hands on my body at night and his absence during the day, while he disappears into his study or leaves for meetings, he doesn't explain.
It should feel like a prison. In many ways, it is one—gilded and beautiful, but a cage nonetheless. I didn't choose to be here, not really. I chose it the way a drowning person chooses a life raft, because the alternative was worse.
And yet.
And yet I'm starting to learn the rhythms of the house.
Which floorboards creak, which doors stick, which windows catch the morning light in ways that make me want to sketch them.
I'm starting to recognize the staff—the older woman who manages the kitchen, the young man who tends the grounds, the silent army that keeps this monument running.
They don't speak to me, but they nod when I pass, acknowledging my presence if not my place.
I'm starting to feel like I belong here.
That's the part that scares me.
On the sixth morning, I wake to find Gabriel already gone. His side of the bed is cold, the sheets rumpled but empty. There's a note on the pillow—actual paper, handwritten, which seems absurdly old-fashioned for a man who runs a business empire.
Meeting in the city. Back by dinner. Don't leave the grounds without James.
James is the driver. The one who brought me here that first night, and every night since. Gabriel's way of keeping me close, even when he can't watch me himself.
I crumple the note and toss it aside, irritation flaring in my chest. Don't leave without James. As if I need permission. As if I'm a child who can't be trusted to cross the street alone.
But underneath the irritation is something else. The memory of Gabriel's face when he told me someone was asking questions. The tension in his voice, carefully controlled but unmistakable. Whatever he's protecting me from, it's real enough to worry him.
And Gabriel Ambrose doesn't worry easily.
I swing my legs out of bed, and a wave of dizziness hits me—sudden and disorienting, the room tilting sideways before righting itself. I grip the edge of the mattress, waiting for it to pass.
Probably just stood up too fast. I haven't been eating well—the stress, the upheaval, the constant state of alertness that comes with living in a murderer's bed. My body is protesting in the only way it knows how.
The dizziness fades, and I push myself to my feet. Shower. Dress. Pretend to be a person who has her life under control.
The bathroom mirror shows me a woman I barely recognize. Pale skin, shadowed eyes, lips still slightly swollen from last night. I look tired. More than tired—I look worn, like a photograph that's been handled too many times.
I splash water on my face and reach for my toothbrush. The moment the mint toothpaste hits my tongue, my stomach lurches violently.
I barely make it to the toilet in time.
When it's over, I kneel on the cold marble floor, breathing hard, trying to understand what just happened. I'm not sick—I don't feel feverish, don't have any of the usual symptoms of illness. Just this sudden, violent revolt of my stomach, triggered by nothing more than toothpaste.
Probably stress, I tell myself. Or something I ate last night. Or the general chaos of my life finally manifesting physically.
I don't let myself think about other possibilities. Not yet.
I rinse my mouth, brush my teeth more carefully this time, and finish getting ready.
The clothes in the closet are my size, my style—nothing I remember packing.
Another reminder that Gabriel has been watching me longer than I knew.
Learning me. Preparing for my arrival before I'd even decided to come.
The thought should disgust me. Instead, it sends a familiar heat through my belly, quickly followed by another wave of nausea that I force myself to swallow down.
What is wrong with me?
I push the question aside and head downstairs, determined to do something normal. Something that doesn't involve locked doors and serpent imagery and a man whose touch makes me forget my own name.
I find James in the kitchen, drinking coffee with the housekeeper. They fall silent when I enter, their conversation dying mid-sentence.
"I need to go out," I say. "To the flower market. I'm sourcing supplies for the Harrison event next week."
The Harrison event is real—a dinner party Gabriel mentioned, another excuse to parade me through his world as his florist while I'm actually something else entirely. But I don't care about the Harrisons. I just need to get out of this house before the walls close in completely.
James sets down his cup. "Of course, miss. I'll bring the car around."
"Thank you."
The housekeeper—Mrs. Bloom, I've learned—gestures toward the counter. "Can I get you anything before you go? Breakfast? Coffee?"
The mention of coffee makes my stomach turn again. "No, thank you. I'm not hungry."
She frowns slightly, the first crack I've seen in her professional mask. "You should eat something, miss. You've been looking pale lately."
"I'm fine," I say, more sharply than I intended. "Just tired."
She nods and returns to her work, but I can feel her eyes on me as I walk to the door. Watching. Noticing things.
What else has she noticed? What else has she reported back to Gabriel?
I wait by the front door, watching through the windows as James disappears toward the garage. The entrance hall stretches around me with its serpent carvings and shadowed corners—beautiful and oppressive in equal measure.
Five days, and I still haven't explored most of the estate. The east wing remains closed—the wing where I witnessed the murder, where Jack Woolworth died with Gabriel's hands around his throat. I've thought about trying those doors, seeing if they're still locked, but something stops me every time.
Maybe I'm not ready to face what's behind them.
Maybe I'm afraid of what I'll feel if I do.
The car is a sleek black sedan with tinted windows—anonymous, expensive, the kind of vehicle that could belong to anyone wealthy enough to afford it. James holds the door for me, his face professionally blank, and I slide into the back seat feeling like a kept woman.
Which, I suppose, is exactly what I am.
The drive to the city takes forty minutes.
I watch the countryside give way to suburbs, suburbs to storefronts, storefronts to the familiar chaos of the flower district.
Normally, the motion of the car would lull me into drowsiness, but today my stomach won't settle.
Every turn, every acceleration makes the nausea spike.
I crack the window, letting cold air wash over my face, and try to breathe through it.
Just stress. Just exhaustion. Just the accumulated toll of the past month.
The market is crowded even on a weekday morning—vendors calling out prices, customers haggling, the air thick with the smell of vegetation and earth.
Normal. Gloriously, painfully normal.
"I'll be parked on the corner of Maple and Fifth," James says as I climb out. "Call when you're ready."
"I might be a while."
"I'll wait."
Of course he will. He'd wait all day if he had to—that's what Gabriel pays him for.
I walk into the market and let myself disappear.
For an hour, I'm just a florist again. I browse the stalls, running my fingers over petals, checking stems for freshness, haggling with vendors I've known for years.
Georgios greets me with his usual warmth, asking where I've been, why I haven't visited.
I make excuses—big client, demanding schedule, you know how it is.
He doesn't believe me, but he doesn't push.
I buy roses, lilies, greenery for the Harrison arrangements. More than I need, probably, but the act of choosing is soothing. Familiar. A reminder that some part of my old life still exists.
Halfway through my shopping, I pass a food stall selling pastries. The smell of butter and sugar hits me, and suddenly I'm ravenous—desperately, overwhelmingly hungry in a way that makes no sense given the nausea from this morning.
I buy a croissant and devour it in three bites, standing in the middle of the market like a starving animal. Then I buy another one.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I'm loading the last of my purchases into bags when I feel it.
That prickle at the back of my neck. The sense of being watched.
I look up, scanning the crowd. Vendors, customers, a thousand anonymous faces going about their business. Nothing unusual. Nothing threatening.
But the feeling doesn't go away.
I gather my bags and head toward the exit, walking faster than necessary. The crowd parts around me, indifferent to my paranoia. I'm almost to the street when a voice stops me.
"Excuse me—are you Poppy Rivers?"
I spin around. The man standing behind me is older—late fifties, maybe early sixties—with silver hair and a face that might have been handsome twenty years ago. He's dressed casually but expensively, the kind of understated wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.
His smile is warm. His eyes are cold.
"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?"