Chapter 9 - Poppy
By Wednesday, I've run out of milk, bread, and excuses.
The apartment has become a cage of my own making—curtains drawn, door barricaded, the same four walls pressing closer every hour. I've been living on crackers and the last of the peanut butter, rationing my dwindling supplies like a survivalist preparing for the apocalypse.
But the apocalypse isn't coming. It's already here, and it wears a tuxedo and smiles like a saint.
My phone has been buzzing all morning. Bea, refusing to be ignored any longer.
I'm coming over. Don't argue.
Poppy, I'm serious. I'm leaving in 10 minutes.
If you don't answer the door, I'm calling the police for a wellness check.
The last message breaks through my paralysis.
The police. Coming here, asking questions, poking into my life.
And what would I tell them? That I'm hiding from a billionaire who left a flower on my doorstep?
That I can't leave my apartment because I'm afraid of a man who, by all public accounts, is a paragon of civic virtue?
They'd think I was crazy. Or worse, they'd write a report, and somehow he'd find out I'd talked to them.
Fine, I type back. Come over. But I look like hell.
I don't care what you look like. I care that you're alive.
Forty-five minutes later, there's a knock at my door.
I stand frozen in the middle of my living room, heart pounding, even though I know it's Bea. Even though I'm expecting her. The knock sounds again, followed by her voice.
"Poppy? It's me. Open up."
I force myself to move. Shove the bookshelf aside—it scrapes against the floor with an awful sound—and undo the locks. Deadbolt, chain, the flimsy knob lock that wouldn't stop anyone.
Bea is standing in the hallway with a paper bag in one arm and an expression that shifts from worry to alarm as she takes in my appearance.
"Jesus Christ," she breathes. "You look like you haven't slept in a week."
"It's only been a few days."
"That's not the comfort you think it is." She pushes past me into the apartment, her eyes scanning the space—the drawn curtains, the bookshelf out of place, the general air of decay. "What the hell is going on with you?"
"I told you. Rough week."
"This isn't a rough week. This is a breakdown." She sets the paper bag on my kitchen counter and turns to face me, arms crossed. "Talk to me. Now."
I close the door behind her and engage the locks again, my hands moving automatically. Bea watches this ritual with growing concern.
"Are you in danger?" she asks quietly. "Is someone... is someone hurting you?"
The question is so direct, so simple, that it almost breaks me. I want to say yes. I want to pour out everything—the murder, the dahlia, the market, the phone call, the canceled client. I want to let someone else carry this weight, even for a moment.
But I can't.
"I'm fine," I say. "I'm just stressed. The gala was a lot, and then I lost a big client, and I haven't been sleeping well—"
"Bullshit."
I blink at her. Bea rarely swears.
"I've known you for eight years," she says.
"I was there when your grandmother died.
I was there when you dropped out of school to take care of your mom.
I was there through every crisis and heartbreak and disaster, and I have never seen you like this.
" She steps closer, her voice softening.
"Whatever it is, you can tell me. I'm not going to judge you.
I'm not going to run away. I'm your friend, Poppy. Let me help."
The sincerity in her voice makes my eyes sting. I look away, blinking hard, trying to hold myself together.
"I can't," I whisper. "I can't tell you. It's not safe."
"Not safe? What does that mean? Poppy, you're scaring me."
"I'm scaring myself."
We stand there in silence, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on both of us. Bea reaches out and takes my hand, her grip warm and steady.
"Okay," she says. "You don't have to tell me everything. But you have to tell me something. Because right now, I'm imagining the worst, and my imagination is pretty dark."
I almost laugh. Her imagination isn't dark enough. Not even close.
"Someone is... interested in me," I say carefully. "Someone powerful. Someone I can't get away from."
"Interested how? Like a stalker?"
The word lands like a stone in still water, ripples spreading outward.
"Something like that."
"Have you gone to the police?"
"They wouldn't believe me. He's too—he's untouchable. He has money, connections, a perfect reputation. No one would believe me over him."
Bea's expression hardens. "Who is it?"
"I can't tell you that either."
"Why not?"
"Because if you know, you become a target too. And I won't do that to you."
She stares at me for a long moment, her jaw tight with frustration. I can see her wrestling with it—the urge to push, to demand answers, warring with respect for my boundaries.
Finally, she sighs.
"Okay. I don't like it, but okay." She squeezes my hand.
"But you're not doing this alone. Whatever this is.
I'm going to check on you every day. I'm going to bring you food and make sure you're eating.
And if things get worse—if you feel like you're in immediate danger—you call me. Day or night. Promise?"
"Bea—"
"Promise me."
The fierceness in her voice reminds me of my mother. That same protective instinct, that same refusal to let me disappear into my own fear.
"I promise," I say.
She nods, satisfied for now, and releases my hand. "Good. Now let's see what we can do about this disaster zone you're living in."
She moves to the paper bag on the counter and starts unpacking—milk, bread, eggs, cheese, a container of soup that looks homemade. Basic supplies, the things I've been too paralyzed to buy for myself.
"You didn't have to do this," I say.
"Yes, I did. You look like you're about to blow away in a strong wind." She opens my refrigerator, grimaces at its emptiness, and starts putting things inside. "When was the last time you ate a real meal?"
"I don't remember."
"That's what I thought. Sit down. I'm making you eggs."
I don't have the energy to argue. I sink into a chair at the kitchen table and watch her move through my space, opening cabinets, finding pans, cracking eggs with practiced efficiency.
The dahlia is still on the table. Bea glances at it as she works.
"Pretty flower," she says. "Where'd that come from?"
My throat tightens. "A client."
"Nice of them. It's holding up well."
"Yeah."
She doesn't push further, and I'm grateful.
I don't know what I would say if she asked more questions.
I don't know how to explain that I'm keeping a gift from the man who's destroying my life, that I can't bring myself to throw it away, that some sick part of me looks at those dark petals and feels something other than revulsion.
The eggs are ready in minutes—scrambled, slightly overdone, exactly how I like them. Bea sets the plate in front of me and drops into the opposite chair.
"Eat," she commands.
I pick up the fork and force myself to take a bite. The eggs taste like cardboard, but I chew and swallow anyway, because Bea is watching me with that fierce, worried expression, and I can't bear to disappoint her.
We sit in silence for a while. I eat mechanically, bite after bite, while she watches. Halfway through the plate, my phone buzzes.
I flinch. Can't help it. Every notification, every call, every unexpected sound has become a potential threat.
Bea notices. Of course she notices.
"You going to check that?"
I pick up the phone with a hand that trembles slightly. Not a call. An email.
I open it and read the first few lines.
Dear Ms. Rivers,
We regret to inform you that we will no longer be requiring your services for our weekly floral arrangements. We have decided to go in a different direction...
The Chengs. The restaurant that's been ordering from me every week for two years. Steady income, reliable work, a relationship I've built carefully over dozens of deliveries and hundreds of arrangements.
Gone.
I read the rest of the email in a daze. Professional regrets, appreciation for past work, best wishes for future endeavors. The same hollow phrases Mrs. Patterson used, the same polite dismissal that means you're not wanted here anymore.
"Poppy?" Bea's voice seems to come from far away. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Another client," I hear myself say. "They canceled."
"What? Why?"
"They didn't say. Just that they're 'going in a different direction.'"
Bea frowns. "That's weird. Two clients in one week?"
Three, I think. If you count the Morrison family, who sent a strangely formal email on Monday explaining that they wouldn't be recommending me for their daughter's friend's wedding after all.
Three clients in five days. Each one polite, apologetic, offering vague excuses that don't quite add up.
It's not a coincidence. It can't be a coincidence.
He's doing this. Systematically, methodically, he's dismantling everything I've built. Cutting off my income, my connections, my ability to survive independently.
And there's nothing I can do to stop him.
"Poppy." Bea reaches across the table and grabs my wrist. "Talk to me. This is connected, isn't it? To the person who's... interested in you?"
I look at her, at the fear and determination warring in her eyes, and I want so badly to tell her everything. To share this burden, to let someone else help me carry it.
But I can't. I can't.
"I don't know," I lie. "It might just be bad luck."
"That's a lot of bad luck."
"Yeah." I pull my hand free and set the phone face-down on the table. "Yeah, it is."
Bea watches me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she stands.
"I'm going to clean up," she says. "And then I'm going to stay for a while. Watch a movie or something. Take your mind off things."
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to. I want to." She carries my plate to the sink and turns on the water. "That's what friends are for, Poppy. Showing up when things are hard."
I sit at the table while she washes dishes, listening to the water run, trying to hold myself together. The email is burned into my mind. We've decided to go in a different direction. How many more directions will my clients decide to go? How long before there's nothing left?
My eyes drift to the business card sitting next to the dahlia. I've been avoiding looking at it, avoiding thinking about it, but it's always there. That heavy cream stock, those embossed letters.
Gabriel Ambrose.
Triple my usual rate, he said. For private events. Exclusive affairs.
My skin crawls at the thought. Working for him. Being in his orbit, his presence, his control. Exactly where he wants me.
But what's the alternative? Watch my business collapse piece by piece until I can't afford rent, can't afford food, can't afford to exist?
My savings won't last more than a few months.
My mother can't help—she has nothing to spare.
And Bea, for all her fierce loyalty, isn't in a position to support me financially.
I have no safety net. No backup plan. No options except the one he's offering.
Is that intentional? Is he creating this desperation, engineering this collapse, so that his outstretched hand becomes the only lifeline?
Of course it is. Of course he is.
The serpent doesn't chase the flower. It simply removes everything else, until there's nowhere left to go except into its coils.
Bea finishes the dishes and comes back to the table, drying her hands on a towel.
"Come on," she says, pulling me to my feet. "Couch. Movie. No arguments."
I let her lead me to the living room, let her pick something mindless and colorful on the television, let her sit beside me with her shoulder pressed against mine. The warmth of her presence is a small comfort in the cold landscape of my fear.
But even as I pretend to watch the screen, my mind keeps circling back to that card. That offer. That impossible choice.
Keep hiding, keep watching everything crumble, keep waiting for him to take the next piece and the next and the next until there's nothing left.
Or pick up the phone. Dial the number. Step willingly into the trap.
Neither option is survivable. Neither option is acceptable.
But one of them is inevitable.
And I'm starting to realize which one it's going to be.
Bea stays until evening, filling the silence with chatter, forcing me to eat soup, keeping the worst of the darkness at bay. When she finally leaves—extracting another promise that I'll call if I need anything—the apartment feels emptier than ever.
I lock the door behind her. Deadbolt, chain, knob. Push the bookshelf back into place.
Then I return to the kitchen table and sit down across from the dahlia.
The flower is still alive, still beautiful, its dark petals catching the dim light. Next to it, the card waits.
I pick it up. Turn it over in my fingers. Feel the weight of it, the smoothness of the expensive paper.
Gabriel Ambrose.
He's taken my clients. My sleep. My sense of safety. My ability to function in the world.
What else is he willing to take before I give him what he wants?
And what exactly does he want?
I think you know.
I set the card down carefully, precisely, next to the flower.
Not tonight. I'm not ready tonight.
But soon.
The decision is already made. I'm just not brave enough to admit it yet.