Chapter 3-The Threat
The fragrance hit her immediately—sweet enough to turn her stomach.
Not roses. Not congratulations. Not romance.
Funeral flowers.
No card. Just the vase sitting on my blotter like it had materialized there, water still beading on the glass.
I stood in my doorway for exactly fifteen seconds, hand still on the handle, taking in the scene: vase positioned dead center, stems trimmed at identical angles, arrangement professionally done.
I crossed to my chair, hand reaching for the armrest, ready to sit.
Stopped.
My bottom drawer was open. Not fully—maybe three inches—but open.
I stood there, hand suspended in mid-air, staring at that three-inch gap like it might close itself if I waited long enough. My pulse kicked up—quick and sharp in my throat. My palms started to sweat. I pressed them against my thighs.
Sunshine Blaire didn't have sweaty palms.
But that was who I was right then. Frozen. Staring.
Terrified.
I had locked it that morning. I knew I had locked it. The same way I knew I'd parked on Level 3, Section B. In the same way, I knew which files went in which cabinet and precisely how many steps from my office door to the elevator.
The protein bars I'd shoved in there were visible through the gap, along with the backup heels and the surveillance photos Richard had brought yesterday.
Everything exactly as I'd left it that morning.
The protein bars still pushed to the left side, the heels in their dust bag, the photos where I'd filed them.
Everything in its place.
Except for the drawer itself.
I knew I had locked it.
But the lock hadn't held.
"Ms. Whitmore?" Janine from reception, hovering at my elbow.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't see who delivered them.
I was on my break between 9:10 and 9:20, and the cameras were down for maintenance during that same window—scheduled maintenance, it was on the calendar.
By the time I got back, the flowers were already there. "
She was apologizing as if it were somehow her fault. Like she should have anticipated that someone would use a ten-minute window to breach a secured law firm.
"It's fine." Sunshine Blaire slipped into place like a second skin. "Just a mix-up."
"Should I?—"
"That's all. Thank you, Janine."
My phone buzzed—a text from an unknown number. I should have ignored it. I looked anyway.
Unknown: Still thinking about dinner. March 14th. Emma's looking forward to meeting you.
No name. But I knew Richard's cadence even in text form—the way he stated things as facts, as if my attendance was already decided, as if he still had the right to assume anything about my schedule.
My thumb hovered over the delete button.
I should have blocked the number. Should have made it clear that showing up at my office twice in one day didn't give him permission to text me about family dinners I'd never agreed to attend.
I deleted it instead. Turned my phone face down on the mahogany surface.
Stared at the lilies until they blurred into white noise.
Someone knocked.
"Go away, Janine," I called without looking up.
The door opened anyway. Not Janine.
Richard stood in my doorway for the third time in two days, and somehow it felt like less time had passed. Like he'd never really left. Like four years had collapsed into nothing the moment he walked back into my carefully controlled world.
Navy suit. Charcoal tie. The same methodical attention I remembered from depositions as he took in the scene—the flowers, my posture, the rigid set of my shoulders.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His gaze moved to the vase first — a quick, assessing sweep — then dropped to the open drawer. He didn't cross to examine either. Just stood where he was and took it in.
"No card. Professional arrangement. Expensive." His eyes returned to the drawer. "You don't leave drawers open."
"I don't?—"
"Don't." The word landed flat. "The drawer's open.
You don't leave drawers open." He scanned the room, gaze settling on the corner near the window.
"And this corner—" He gestured without moving toward it.
"Camera blind spot. Someone knew exactly where to stand.
" He turned to face me. "How long have you felt like someone's watching you? "
"I don't?—"
"Remember the gala," Richard said quietly. "The Whitmore Foundation event. Eight months ago."
The air left my lungs.
"I was there that night. I saw what happened to you before you walked off that stage.
" He held my gaze, steady. "Whoever is doing this knows you the same way — they've been watching long enough to know what breaks you.
That's not random. That's someone who's been paying attention to you for a while.
" A pause. "Is there anyone from that night who might?—"
"I don't want to talk about that night." My voice came out raw.
"All right." He didn't look away. "But is there anyone who might?—"
"Rowan's in prison."
"I know. I checked." Of course, he had. "But he had associates. People who might?—"
"This isn't about Rowan." The words came out too sharp, too fast. "Three weeks ago. Maybe four. Small things. Files reshuffled. My car—my locked car—in a different spot in the garage than where I'd parked it. I thought I was?—"
"Losing your mind?"
"Being paranoid," I said quietly.
"There's a difference." He moved then — around the desk to my side, not toward me, past me.
I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just stood there as he reached for the business card from Morrison Plaza on the credenza behind my chair, leaning past me, his arm brushing my shoulder, the scent of cedar and clean cotton filling the space between us.
He wasn't touching me. Not really. Just close enough that I felt his warmth, close enough that if I'd turned my head three inches I could?—
He straightened, studied the card for exactly two seconds, then set it back down.
We were two feet apart. Maybe less. Close enough that I could see the amber flecks in his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell with careful, measured breaths.
Neither of us moved.
"Someone is very serious about watching you, Blaire. Someone who knows your routine well enough to fuck with it in ways that would make you question yourself rather than call the police."
His voice was low, controlled. The same tone he'd used in depositions when he knew he had the winning argument and was waiting for the other side to figure it out.
I should have leaned back. Should have pushed my chair away. Should have done anything except sit there looking at the exact shade of his eyes and the way his pulse beat steady in his throat.
But I didn't.
And neither did he.
The moment stretched. Broke.
He stepped back first.
"I'm having my security team sweep your apartment and car," he said, pulling out his phone. "And I'm staying with you until we know what this is."
The words landed like ice water.
"Absolutely not," I said flatly.
"It's not a request."
"Richard—"
"Someone broke into your office, Blaire. Into a locked law firm with security protocols and cameras. They knew exactly when those cameras would be down, which means they either have access to building maintenance schedules or they have someone on the inside."
He leaned forward, palms flat on the desk between us, and for the first time since he'd walked in, his control slipped just enough for me to see the concern underneath.
"This is not a prank. This is not a coincidence. I'm not letting you get hurt because you're too stubborn to accept help."
I shifted my weight in the chair. My coffee had gone cold. I couldn't remember when I'd last taken a sip.
"I didn't ask for your help."
"No. You never do." Old frustration crossed his face, chased by something older—hurt. "But you're getting it anyway."
We stood there, locked in the same battle of wills that had defined our entire relationship.
I wanted to tell him to leave. Wanted to maintain the careful distance I'd built between myself and anything that might crack me open.
Wanted to prove I could handle this alone, the way I handled everything alone.
But my drawer had been open three inches.
And I had locked it.
"One week," I heard myself say. "You have one week to figure out what this is. Then you're gone."
Even as I said it, I knew it was a mistake. Inviting Richard into my space for one week, into my apartment, into my carefully controlled world — close enough to see through every wall I'd built.
But my drawer had been open three inches.
And I had locked it.
"Two weeks. Non-negotiable," he countered.
"Ten days."
Ten days. That was all. That was manageable.
That was a lie, but I was good at those.
"Fine." Richard straightened and pulled out his phone again. "Still the Midtown place, or did you move again?"
"No."
He nodded once, typed something into his phone, and pocketed it. "I'll be there by seven."
I stared at him. "You're moving in? Tonight?"
"Someone went through your drawer this morning, Blaire. I'm not waiting until they escalate."
This was insane. This was Richard, whom I’d been successfully avoiding, who knew exactly which buttons to push to make me feel like I was coming apart at the seams. Richard, who had walked away from me once.
Richard, who was looking at me right then like I was a puzzle he was determined to solve, even if it killed us both.
I verified the address.
"Good." He typed it in, pocketed the phone. "I'll be there by seven. Don't go anywhere alone between now and then. That includes the parking garage."
"I have work."
"Then I'll wait."
"For four hours?"
"If that's what it takes." He moved toward the door, paused with his hand on the handle. "And Blaire? Whatever this is, whatever you think you can handle alone—you're wrong. So for once in your life, stop acting like you have it all under control and let someone help you."
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
I sat there, surrounded by the carefully constructed architecture of my life—the diplomas on the wall in walnut frames, the case files in perfect chronological order—and felt it all shift beneath my feet.
Ten days of Richard in my space. In my apartment. In my carefully controlled world.
Close enough to see through every wall I'd built.
Close enough to see the nothingness underneath.
My phone buzzed.
Richard: Lock your door. All of them. I mean it.
I locked the door.
Then checked it.
Then checked it again.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead—a sound I'd trained myself not to hear.
Three times. The same way I always did. The lock held. It always did.
But I checked it anyway.