Chapter 8 - Gabriel
Hutton's report arrives at noon, delivered in his usual clipped, efficient manner.
"The Patterson client canceled this morning, sir. The florist received the call around ten. She hasn't left the apartment since."
I set down my coffee and lean back in my chair, savoring the information like a fine wine. "Her reaction?"
"Difficult to assess without interior surveillance. But she hasn't opened the curtains or moved the barricade from her door. Building cameras show no activity in the hallway outside her unit."
Barricade. She's pushed furniture against her door, trying to keep the world out. Trying to keep me out.
The image pleases me more than it should.
"Continue monitoring. I want to know the moment anything changes."
"Yes, sir."
Hutton disconnects, and I'm left alone in my study with the morning light streaming through tall windows and the satisfaction of a plan unfolding exactly as intended.
She's trapped. Isolated. Her business is crumbling, her support systems are strained, and her ability to function in the world is deteriorating by the hour. Every move I make pushes her further into a corner, and soon—very soon—she'll realize that the only way out is through me.
I should feel triumphant. This is what I wanted, after all. This is the game I've been playing since the moment I saw her kneeling among black dahlias in my ballroom.
But the triumph feels hollow somehow. Distant. Like watching a fire through glass—you can see the flames, feel a ghost of the heat, but you're not truly there.
I want to be there.
I want to see her face when she realizes how completely I've surrounded her. I want to watch the fear and the fury war in her eyes. I want to be close enough to smell her shampoo, to feel the heat of her skin, to hear the catch in her breath when she understands that there's no escape.
Surveillance feeds and secondhand reports aren't enough anymore.
I need more.
The door to my study opens without a knock—there's only one person in this house who would dare—and Benedict saunters in like he owns the place.
My youngest brother is dressed for a day of leisure: dark jeans, a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, his hair artfully disheveled in that way that takes an hour to achieve.
He's holding a tumbler of whiskey despite the early hour because Benedict has never met a rule he didn't want to break.
"Brother," he says, dropping into the chair across from my desk. "You look like a man with a secret."
"I have many secrets. So do you."
"Yes, but mine are fun." He swirls his whiskey, studying me with those sharp eyes that see more than he lets on. "Josiah tells me you've developed an... interest. A florist, of all things."
"Josiah talks too much."
"Josiah worries too much. There's a difference." Benedict takes a sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving my face. "So. Tell me about her."
"There's nothing to tell."
"Liar." He grins, delighted. "I haven't seen you this distracted since... actually, I've never seen you this distracted. The great Gabriel Ambrose, brought low by a woman who arranges flowers for a living. It's almost poetic."
I keep my expression neutral, but irritation prickles beneath my skin. Benedict has always known exactly which buttons to push—it's his greatest talent and his most annoying trait.
"She witnessed something at the gala," I say flatly. "I'm managing the situation."
"Managing it. Is that what we're calling it now?" Benedict laughs. "Josiah says you've had her under surveillance for over a week. That you approached her at a flower market like some lovesick schoolboy. That you called her, Gabriel. On the telephone. Like a person with feelings."
"I'm establishing control."
"You're obsessing." He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his amusement sharpening into something more serious. "I'm not judging, brother. God knows I've had my share of fixations. But this one seems... different. More intense. More personal."
I don't respond. There's nothing I could say that wouldn't confirm his suspicions.
"Let me meet her," Benedict says.
"No."
"Why not? I'm charming. I'm delightful. I could help with your little project—"
"She's not a project. And you're not going anywhere near her."
The words come out harder than I intended, edged with something that sounds almost like possessiveness. Benedict's eyebrows rise.
"Well, well," he murmurs. "It's worse than I thought."
"There's nothing wrong with the situation. I have it under control."
"Do you?" He settles back in his chair, swirling his whiskey again.
"Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're spinning webs around a woman who might not be worth the silk.
She's nobody, Gabriel. A florist. A witness who hasn't gone to the police and probably never will. Why not just... let her go?"
Let her go.
The suggestion is so absurd that I almost laugh. Let her go, as if she's a fish I could throw back into the water. As if I could simply stop thinking about her, stop wanting her, stop feeling the pull of her presence like gravity.
She drew a serpent whispering to a flower before she ever knew my name. She looked at me through that doorway and didn't scream. She kept the dahlia I left on her doorstep, put it in water, tended it like something precious.
She's not nobody.
She's everything.
"The situation is under control," I repeat. "That's all you need to know."
Benedict studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he shrugs and drains his whiskey.
"If you say so, brother. But a word of advice from someone who's watched you operate for thirty years: you're not as subtle as you think you are.
Josiah sees it. I see it. Eventually, the Brotherhood will see it too.
" He stands, setting his empty glass on my desk.
"And when they do, they'll want to know why their leader is spending more time stalking a florist than attending to business. "
He leaves without waiting for a response, the door clicking shut behind him.
I sit in the silence he's left behind, turning his words over in my mind.
He's not wrong. I've been distracted—missing meetings, delegating responsibilities, letting Brotherhood matters slide while I obsess over surveillance reports and phone calls. It's not sustainable. It's not safe.
But I can't stop.
She's in my head, burrowed deep like a splinter I can't extract. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face—that moment in the doorway, terror and recognition tangled together. Every time I'm alone, I hear her voice on the phone, that broken whisper asking what I want.
I think you know what I want.
I do want her. More than I've wanted anything in years. But it's more than desire—it's need. A compulsion. An ache that won't be satisfied until she's mine completely.
Until she stops running and starts choosing.
My phone buzzes. A text from Josiah: Brotherhood meeting at 3. Henderson matter. Your presence required.
I check my watch. Two hours. Enough time to review the Henderson situation and prepare for whatever tedious negotiations await.
The Henderson matter is exactly the kind of Brotherhood business I should be focusing on.
Arthur Henderson is an outer ring member who's been making noise about wanting more influence, more access, more power than his position warrants.
He needs to be reminded of his place—firmly but diplomatically, in a way that doesn't create unnecessary enemies.
A month ago, this would have consumed my attention. I would have spent days preparing, analyzing Henderson's weaknesses, planning exactly how to neutralize him.
Now I can barely make myself care.
I pull up the Henderson file on my laptop, forcing myself to focus.
His financial records, his family connections, his known associates.
The leverage we have on him—a mistress, some questionable investments, a son with a drug problem that's been quietly managed. Standard material. Standard approach.
I read through it mechanically, making notes, formulating a strategy. But my mind keeps drifting back to her. To the barricade against her door. To the dahlia she's keeping alive on her kitchen table.
To what comes next.
The Patterson client was just the beginning. One lost job won't break her—she'll be upset, worried, but she'll survive. She'll tell herself it was a coincidence, bad luck, the natural volatility of a small business.
I need to take more.
I pull up the file Hutton compiled on her business. Poppy Rivers Florals. Revenue last year: barely enough to cover rent and supplies. Client list: modest but growing. Repeat customers who value her work, recommend her to friends, keep her afloat.
Each name on that list is a thread I can cut.
The Morrison family, who hired her for their daughter's wedding last spring. The Chengs, who use her for their restaurant's weekly arrangements. The Delacroix estate, where she does seasonal displays.
Small jobs, most of them. Nothing that would make headlines. But together, they're her livelihood. Her independence. Her ability to exist in the world without needing anyone else.
Without needing me.
I could make calls. Pull strings. Have competitors offer better rates, have clients receive whispered warnings about reliability issues, have her reputation slowly poisoned until no one wants to take a chance on an unknown florist with no connections.
It would take weeks, maybe months. But eventually, she'd have nothing left. No income, no prospects, no options.
And then I'd be there. Offering salvation. Offering work, money, security—everything she's lost, restored with a single word from me.
All she'd have to do is accept.
The plan unfolds in my mind, elegant and inevitable. I can see it so clearly—her resistance crumbling, her pride giving way to necessity, her hand reaching out to take what I'm offering because there's nothing else left to reach for.
But even as I map out the strategy, something nags at me. A dissatisfaction I can't quite name.
I don't just want her desperate. I don't just want her dependent.
I want her to see me. The way she saw me through that doorway—not the mask, not the public face, but the thing underneath. I want her to look at the monster and choose it anyway.
Breaking her would be easy. Making her want me—that's the real challenge.
And I've never been able to resist a challenge.
The Brotherhood meeting is interminable.
Henderson blusters and postures, making demands he has no leverage to enforce.
Josiah handles most of the negotiation; his calm demeanor never cracking, even when Henderson's voice rises to near-shouting.
I sit at the head of the table, playing my role, making the appropriate responses at the appropriate moments.
But I'm not really there.
I'm thinking about her. About the next move, the next escalation, the next thread to cut.
After the meeting, Josiah corners me in the hallway.
"You were distracted in there," he says quietly. "Henderson noticed. He'll take it as weakness."
"Henderson is an insect. His opinions don't concern me."
"They should. Insects bite when they feel threatened." Josiah studies my face, his expression troubled. "This is about the florist, isn't it? You're still—"
"I'm handling it."
"You keep saying that. But I'm not seeing evidence of handling. I'm seeing evidence of obsession spiraling out of control."
I turn to face him fully, letting him see the coldness in my eyes. "Be very careful, brother. Your concern is noted, but my patience has limits."
Josiah holds my gaze for a long moment. Then he nods slowly.
"I hope you know what you're doing," he says. "For all our sakes."
He walks away, leaving me alone in the corridor with the weight of his warning settling over my shoulders.
He's right to be concerned. I am obsessed. I am distracted. I'm letting a woman I've barely spoken to consume my thoughts, my time, my carefully constructed life.
But I can't stop.
And I'm not sure I want to.
That evening, I sit in my study with the lights off, watching the surveillance feed from outside her building. Her window is dark. She hasn't turned on a light in hours.
Is she sleeping? Sitting in the dark like I am, thinking about me the way I'm thinking about her?
Or is she planning something? Finding some courage I haven't anticipated, some move I haven't accounted for?
The thought should worry me. Instead, it excites me.
Fight back, I think, watching that dark window. Show me what you're made of.
Make this interesting.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find the number for Harriet Vance, a society columnist who owes me several favors. A whisper in the right ear, a mention in the right column, and Poppy Rivers' reputation could be enhanced or destroyed with equal ease.
Not yet. It's too soon for that particular weapon.
But soon.
I set the phone aside and return to watching the dark window, letting the anticipation build.
She's almost ready. A few more turns of the screw, a few more pieces removed from the board, and she'll have nowhere left to go.
And then—finally—she'll come to me.
The serpent doesn't chase the flower. It simply waits, coiled and patient, until the flower has no choice but to fall.
She's falling now. She just doesn't know it yet.
But she will.
Soon.