Chapter Two
Laura spotted it immediately—a folded piece of paper wedged into the door frame at eye level, impossible to miss. Her keys froze halfway to the lock.
She knew what it was before she touched it.
The paper was cheap, lined, torn from a spiral notebook. The handwriting was neat, almost cheerful—the kind of penmanship that belonged on grocery lists, not threats.
No signature. No name. Just numbers that might as well have been a death sentence.
Laura's hands started shaking again.
She'd almost convinced herself yesterday was a fluke. That the men in the sedan were watching someone else. That the mysterious biker with his memorial flowers had been paranoid, seeing threats where none existed.
Lock up early tonight. Don't stay late.
She hadn't listened. She'd stayed until eight, finishing a sympathy spray for a customer who needed it by morning. Stubborn. Stupid.
But she'd made it home fine. Nothing happened.
And now this.
Laura unlocked the door with trembling fingers and stepped inside, hitting the lights with her elbow. The shop bloomed around her—coolers humming, ribbon racks catching the fluorescent glow, the faint sweet rot of yesterday's discards waiting in the back room trash.
She set the note on the counter and stared at it.
Forty thousand dollars.
Her father had been dead for six months.
Heart attack at sixty-two, the doctors said.
Too much stress, not enough exercise, a lifetime of bad choices finally catching up.
Laura had handled the funeral, cleared out his house, dealt with the modest debts she'd expected—credit cards, a car payment, the usual mess a man leaves behind when he doesn't plan to die.
Nobody had mentioned gambling.
Nobody had mentioned forty thousand dollars.
The wholesale delivery truck rumbled up outside, right on schedule. Laura folded the note, shoved it in her pocket, and went to meet the driver.
"Morning, Ms. Simmons." Terry had been delivering flowers to Petals & Stems since before Laura bought the place. "Got your roses, lilies, carnations. Some nice eucalyptus this week."
"Thanks, Terry."
She signed the clipboard without really seeing it and started hauling buckets into the shop. Roses first—they were the most fragile, needed the cold storage fastest. Then lilies, their pollen already dusting her apron. Carnations last, hardy and forgiving.
The work steadied her hands.
That was the thing about flowers—they demanded attention. You couldn't strip thorns while your mind was elsewhere. You couldn't cut stems at the wrong angle and expect them to drink. Every bloom required focus, precision, care.
Laura lost herself in the rhythm.
Trim. Cut. Sort. Check for damage. Discard the wilted. Rotate the old stock forward. Make room for the new.
By the time she finished, an hour had passed and her hands had stopped shaking.
The bell over the door chimed.
Laura looked up to find a woman in her thirties—blonde, pretty, wearing an engagement ring that caught the light like a small sun. Bride. Definitely a bride.
"Are you Laura? Someone recommended you for wedding flowers."
"That's me." Laura wiped her hands on her apron and summoned her customer smile. "When's the big day?"
"October fifteenth. It's a fall wedding, outdoor ceremony at a vineyard. I was thinking warm colors—oranges, deep reds, maybe some burgundy."
"I can work with that." Laura pulled out her consultation binder. "How many arrangements are we talking about?"
They walked through the details—centerpieces, bouquets, boutonnieres, altar pieces. The bride wanted "rustic elegance," which meant mason jars and burlap mixed with roses and dahlias. Laura had done a hundred variations on the theme.
"Can I see a sample?" the bride asked. "Just to get a sense of your style?"
"Absolutely. Give me ten minutes."
Laura retreated to her work station and started pulling stems. White peonies for the base—not the fall colors the bride wanted, but she needed to see the structure, the craftsmanship. Eucalyptus for greenery. Trailing ivy to soften the edges.
Her hands moved on autopilot.
Strip. Trim. Wire. Position.
Through the front window, she could see the street. No black sedan today. No men watching. Just the usual Friday morning traffic—commuters heading to work, a mom pushing a stroller, an old man walking a dog.
Normal. Safe.
$40,000. 7 days.
Laura's hands faltered. A peony stem snapped in her grip.
"Everything okay?" The bride's voice floated from the front of the shop.
"Fine." Laura grabbed a fresh stem. "Just being picky about which blooms to use."
She finished the arrangement in eight minutes—a low centerpiece that could sit on a reception table without blocking conversation. The peonies cascaded naturally, the eucalyptus adding texture, the ivy trailing down to brush the table surface.
"Oh." The bride's eyes went wide. "That's beautiful."
"Fall colors would be warmer, but the structure would be the same." Laura set the arrangement on the counter between them. "I can do a full mock-up if you want to book a second consultation."
"I don't need a mock-up. You're hired."
They spent another twenty minutes on details—deposit, timeline, delivery logistics. Laura wrote everything in her order book with careful penmanship, forcing herself to focus on the words instead of the note burning a hole in her pocket.
When the bride finally left, clutching her receipt and beaming, Laura locked the door behind her.
Then she pulled out the note and read it again.
$40,000. 7 days.
Seven days to find money she didn't have. Seven days before—what? The men in the sedan came back? Someone broke her windows? Her legs?
She thought about calling the police.
And telling them what? That her dead father owed money to someone she'd never met? That men were watching her shop but hadn't actually done anything illegal? That she'd received a note with no signature, no proof, nothing that would hold up in any court?
The police would tell her to come back when something actually happened.
By then, it would be too late.
Laura walked to the register and opened the drawer. Under the cash tray, in the small compartment where she kept spare keys and emergency twenties, she placed the note.
Then she closed the drawer and went back to work.
The sympathy spray from yesterday needed ribbon. The cooler needed reorganizing. There were invoices to process, orders to confirm, a hundred small tasks that kept a flower shop running.
She could fall apart later. Right now, she had a business to run.
Lock up early tonight. Don't stay late.
The biker's words echoed in her head. Cipher—that's what the patch on his cut had said. She'd noticed it during one of his early visits, when curiosity had gotten the better of her and she'd read the rockers while he studied the arrangements in her cooler.
Black Ops Brotherhood.
She didn't know what that meant, exactly. Some kind of motorcycle club, obviously. The kind of men her father would have warned her about, back when he was alive and his warnings meant something.
But Cipher had looked at those men in the sedan like they were insects. Had walked right up to them without fear. Had told her to lock up early like he actually gave a damn what happened to her.
Eight months of memorial flowers. Three arrangements, same order, every third Thursday. She'd never asked who they were for. Never pushed when he paid cash and gave no name.
But she'd noticed him. Hard not to—he was the kind of man who filled a room just by standing in it. Quiet, watchful, with hands that moved like they knew exactly what they were doing.
Capable hands.
Her father had never been capable. Charming, yes. Fun, when he wanted to be. But capable? Reliable?
No.
And now his debts were her debts, and capable hands weren't going to save her.
Laura finished the sympathy spray, tied the ribbon with a perfect bow, and set it in the cooler for afternoon pickup. The centerpiece from the consultation went in the display window—maybe someone walking by would see it and book their own wedding.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Nice shop. Shame if something happened to it.
Laura's blood went cold.
She stared at the screen for a long moment. Then she screenshotted the message, forwarded it to her email, and deleted the thread.
Evidence. In case she needed it later.
In case there was a later.
The register drawer sat closed in front of her, the debt note hidden inside. Forty thousand dollars. Seven days. And now they had her phone number.
Laura's hands were shaking again.
But she picked up her stem cutters anyway and started prepping the next order. A birthday arrangement—yellow roses, someone's grandmother turning eighty. Happy occasion. Normal life.
She'd fake normal until normal came back.
Or until it didn't.