Chapter 7 - Poppy
The morning after his phone call, sunlight forces its way through the gaps in my curtains like an unwelcome guest.
I'm still on the couch where I spent the night, knees pulled to my chest, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders that did nothing to stop the shaking. The apartment is silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic—ordinary noises that should be comforting but aren't.
His voice is still in my head. That smooth, intimate tone. I think you know what I want. It surfaces without warning, making my skin crawl, making me glance at the door to confirm the deadbolt is still engaged.
It is. I've checked it a dozen times since he hung up.
The bookshelf I pushed in front of the door last night looks absurd in the morning light—a pathetic barricade that wouldn't stop anyone determined to get in. But I don't move it. I can't bring myself to move it.
On my kitchen table, the dahlia catches the light filtering through the curtains. Its dark petals are still perfect, still gleaming, still alive despite everything. I've been keeping it in fresh water, trimming the stem, treating it with more care than anything else in my apartment.
I don't know why. I don't want to examine why.
The funeral arrangement is due Monday. Mrs. Patterson's mother—a woman I never met but whose favorite flowers were white roses and baby's breath. I promised the family something elegant, understated, a final tribute to a life well-lived.
The roses are gone. Abandoned somewhere on Maple Street yesterday morning, dropped in my panic to escape him. I need to go back to the market today, buy new supplies, work through the night to have everything ready for Monday delivery.
I force myself to stand. My legs are stiff, my back aching from hours curled in the same position. I move to the window and peer through the gap in the curtains, scanning the street below for anything out of place.
A woman walking her dog. A man jogging with earbuds in. Cars parked along the curb, none of them occupied as far as I can tell.
Normal. Everything looks normal.
But he found me at the market. He found my phone number. He's probably had someone watching my building this whole time, tracking my movements, reporting back to him.
The thought makes my stomach turn.
I let the curtain fall and step back from the window. I need to go to the market. I need to salvage this job, this client, this fragile thread of my professional reputation. Mrs. Patterson is counting on me. Her mother deserves beautiful flowers at her funeral.
I reach for the deadbolt. My hand hovers over it, trembling.
I have a feeling we'll be seeing more of each other, Poppy Rivers.
I pull my hand back.
I can't do it. I can't make myself open that door, step into that hallway, walk out onto that street where he might be waiting. The fear is a physical thing, a weight pressing on my chest, stealing my breath.
One more hour, I tell myself. I'll go in one more hour.
The hour passes. Then another.
Around ten o'clock, my phone rings.
I flinch so hard I nearly knock over the glass of water I've been nursing. The screen shows a local number—not unknown, not his. I stare at it for three rings, four, my heart hammering.
It's probably nothing. A telemarketer. A wrong number.
I answer anyway, because the not-knowing is worse than anything.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Rivers? This is Catherine Patterson."
The client. The funeral arrangement. I close my eyes and try to force my voice into something resembling professional.
"Mrs. Patterson. I was just about to call you. I wanted to confirm the delivery time for tomorrow—"
"That's actually why I'm calling." She pauses, and in that pause, I hear everything. The awkwardness. The reluctance. The words she's about to say that will make my already crumbling life crumble a little more. "I'm afraid we need to cancel the order."
The words don't register at first. "Cancel?"
"I'm so sorry. I know this is last-minute, and I feel terrible about it. But we've had another florist reach out—a larger company, very reputable. They offered to do the arrangements at no charge, as a... a kindness, they said. Given the circumstances."
I sink back onto my couch, the phone pressed to my ear, trying to understand.
"At no charge," I repeat.
"Yes. They said they'd heard about my mother's passing and wanted to help. It seemed like such a generous offer, and with the costs of the funeral already..." She trails off. "I hope you understand. It's nothing personal. Your work at the Morrison wedding was beautiful. I just couldn't turn down—"
"Of course." My voice sounds distant, like it's coming from someone else. "Of course, I understand. These things happen."
"I'll recommend you to everyone I know. I promise. And I'll still pay for your time, for the consultation—"
"That's not necessary."
"Are you sure? I feel awful about this."
"It's fine, Mrs. Patterson. Really. I hope the service is everything your mother deserved."
I hang up before she can say anything else.
The apartment is silent. The dahlia on my kitchen table catches the light, its dark petals gleaming like silk.
A larger company. Very reputable. Offering premium service at no charge.
It could be a coincidence. These things happen in business—competitors undercutting each other, clients lured away by better deals. It doesn't have to mean anything.
But I think about him. About his resources, his connections, his ability to find my phone number and call me in the dark.
If he can do that, he can certainly find out who my clients are.
He can certainly make a phone call, pull some strings, have someone offer a grieving family an arrangement they can't refuse.
He's taking things from me. Piece by piece. Dismantling the small life I've built until there's nothing left.
First, my sense of safety. Then my sleep. Then, my ability to leave my own apartment.
Now my livelihood.
What will be next? Bea? My mother? Every person and thing I care about, stripped away until I have nowhere to turn except to him?
I sit on my couch for a long time, staring at nothing, feeling the walls close in around me.
Around noon, my phone buzzes. A text from Bea.
Hey, you ok? You've been quiet since the gala. Everything alright?
I pick up the phone, start typing a response, delete it. Start again, delete it again.
What would I even say? Sorry I've been distant, I witnessed a murder, and now a billionaire is stalking me, and I think he just sabotaged my business.
Just a rough week, I type instead. I'll call you soon. Promise.
Her response is immediate. You said that yesterday. I'm starting to worry. Want me to come over?
The thought of Bea here, in this apartment, asking questions I can't answer—it makes my chest tight. But the thought of being alone, of spending another night jumping at shadows with no one to talk to—that's worse.
Maybe tomorrow, I type. I'm not feeling great today.
Ok, but I'm holding you to that. Love you.
Love you too.
I put the phone face-down on the cushion.
I should tell her. I know I should. Bea is my best friend, has been since college, and she would believe me. She would help me figure out what to do.
But what could she do? What could anyone do against a man like Gabriel Ambrose?
And if I tell her, I pull her into this. Make her a target. Give him another piece of my life to dismantle.
I can't do that to her. I won't.
The afternoon crawls by. I try to eat—crackers, half an apple—but everything tastes like cardboard. I try to watch television, but can't follow the plots. I try to read, but the words swim on the page, rearranging themselves into his name.
Gabriel. Gabriel. Gabriel.
Around four o'clock, my mother calls.
I stare at the screen for a long moment, watching her name flash. I should answer. I've been avoiding her since the gala, giving her half-truths and deflections, and she's too perceptive not to notice. If I keep dodging her calls, she'll show up at my door.
I answer.
"Hi, Mom."
"Sweetheart. I tried calling yesterday, but you didn't pick up." Her voice is tight with worry. "Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine. Just busy with work."
"You don't sound fine. You sound exhausted."
"I haven't been sleeping well. It's nothing."
A pause. I can hear her thinking, weighing whether to push or let it go. My mother has never been good at letting things go.
"The gala," she says finally. "The Ambrose event. Something happened there, didn't it?"
My hand tightens on the phone. "What makes you say that?"
"Because I know you. Because you've been different since that night—distant, evasive. Because every time I ask about it, you change the subject."
"Nothing happened, Mom. It was just a job. I did the flowers, I got paid, end of story."
"Poppy." Her voice is gentle but firm. "I'm your mother. Don't lie to me."
The words stick in my throat. I want to tell her. I want to pour out everything—the murder, the dahlia, the market, the phone call—and let her make it better the way she did when I was small, and the world was full of monsters that could be banished with a nightlight.
But I'm not small anymore. And these monsters don't live under beds.
"I'm just tired," I say. "The job was bigger than I expected. It took a lot out of me."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Those people," she says slowly. "The Ambroses. They're not... they're not the kind of people you want to be involved with."
Something cold trickles down my spine. "What do you mean?"
"I don't mean anything specific. I just..." She sighs. "Rich people. Powerful people. They think they own the world. They think they can do whatever they want and no one can stop them. I've seen it before. You get too close to people like that, and they'll swallow you whole."
"When have you seen that?"
Silence. I can hear her breathing, can almost feel her pulling back.
"It doesn't matter," she says. "Just... be careful, sweetheart. Stay away from those kinds of people. They're dangerous."
"Mom." I grip the phone tighter. "If there's something you're not telling me—"
"There's nothing to tell." Her voice is firm, but there's a tremor beneath it. "I'm just a mother who worries about her daughter. That's all."
I want to push harder. I want to demand answers, to crack open the vault of her silence and see what's inside. But something in her tone stops me—a fragility I've never heard before. A fear that seems older than this conversation, older than the gala, older than my entire life.
"Okay," I say quietly. "I'll be careful."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
"And if anything happens—if anyone bothers you, or threatens you, or makes you feel unsafe in any way—you'll tell me. Immediately. No matter what."
The dahlia gleams on my table. His voice echoes in my head.
"I will, Mom. I promise."
We talk for a few more minutes—small things, safe things, the weather and her garden and the neighbor's dog that won't stop barking. Normal mother-daughter conversation, as if everything isn't falling apart.
After I hang up, I sit in the gathering dusk and think about what she said.
I've seen it before. You get too close to people like that, and they'll swallow you whole.
What has she seen? When? Where?
My mother has always been afraid—of strangers, of change, of anything that disrupts the small, careful life she's built. I always assumed it was anxiety, maybe trauma from something in her past that she didn't want to discuss.
But what if it's more than that? What if her fear isn't irrational at all?
I look around my apartment—the barricaded door, the drawn curtains, the uneaten food on the counter. I think about the lost flowers, the canceled client, the phone call in the dark.
I'm becoming her. Hiding behind locked doors, jumping at shadows, letting fear shrink my world until there's nothing left but four walls and a racing heart.
Is that what he wants? To turn me into a prisoner in my own life? To isolate me so completely that he becomes the only thing left?
The thought sparks something in my chest. Not hope—I'm too tired for hope. But something adjacent to it. A stubbornness. A refusal.
I can't keep living like this. I can't keep hiding, waiting, letting him dismantle my life piece by piece while I cower in my apartment.
I have to do something.
I don't know what yet. Confronting him seems suicidal. Running seems pointless—he has resources I can't imagine, connections I can't escape. Going to the police still feels futile, a child's solution to an adult nightmare.
But there has to be something. Some move I can make, some leverage I can find, some way to stop being prey.
I stand up from the couch, legs stiff, and walk to the kitchen table. The dahlia sits in its glass of water, petals dark and perfect.
I should throw it away. It's his mark on my life, his claim on my space, and keeping it makes me complicit somehow.
But I don't throw it away.
Instead, I stand there looking at it, this beautiful dying thing that a monster left on my doorstep, and I make myself a promise.
I will not let him swallow me whole.
I don't know how to fight him yet. But I will figure it out.
And when I do, he's going to learn that I'm not as easy to break as he thinks.