Chapter 11 - Poppy
The morning arrives like an executioner—quiet, inevitable, impossible to bargain with.
I've been awake since four, watching the darkness outside my window gradually give way to gray, then pale gold.
My body is exhausted, but my mind won't stop racing, cycling through the same thoughts over and over.
What to wear. What to say. How to sit across from a murderer and pretend I'm there to discuss flower arrangements.
By seven, I give up on the pretense of rest and drag myself to the shower. The hot water helps a little, loosening the tension in my shoulders, washing away some of the fog in my head. I stand under the spray until it runs cold, then force myself to step out and face the mirror.
The woman looking back at me is a stranger. Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones, skin that's lost its color. I've lost weight this past week—too much, too fast. The kind of weight loss that makes people ask if you're sick, if you're okay, if there's something you want to talk about.
I am sick. I'm not okay. And there's nothing I can talk about, not without putting everyone I love in danger.
I apply makeup with hands that won't stop trembling. Foundation to even out the pallor. Concealer for the shadows under my eyes. Blush to fake the appearance of health. It's armor, I tell myself. A mask to hide behind.
The irony isn't lost on me. He wears masks, too.
The closet is next. I stand in front of it for twenty minutes, paralyzed by choices that shouldn't matter but somehow feel life-or-death.
What do you wear to a business meeting with the man who's been systematically destroying your life?
What outfit says I'm a professional and you don't scare me, and please don't kill me?
I settle on a navy blouse and black trousers. Simple. Professional. The kind of thing I'd wear to any client meeting, if this were any client meeting, if anything about this situation were normal.
It's not normal. Nothing about this is normal.
By ten-thirty, I'm dressed, made up, and standing in my kitchen staring at the dahlia on my table. It's still alive, somehow. Still beautiful, its dark petals catching the morning light like silk. I should have thrown it away days ago. Weeks ago. The moment I found it on my doorstep.
But I didn't. I kept it. Tended it. And now it's watching me prepare to walk into the serpent's den, a silent witness to my surrender.
"I'm not surrendering," I say out loud, my voice strange in the empty apartment. "I'm surviving. There's a difference."
The dahlia doesn't respond.
I consider not going. The thought has been surfacing all morning, rising like a bubble through deep water.
I could just not show up. Block his number.
Pack a bag and drive until I run out of road.
Disappear the way my mother always seemed ready to disappear, with a bag by the door and a plan that never quite got spoken aloud.
But I know how that ends. He found my phone number. He found my clients. He found his way into my apartment while I slept. If I run, he'll find me. And the punishment for running will be worse than whatever awaits me at this lunch.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
The truth is more complicated. The truth is that some part of me doesn't want to run.
Some part of me is tired of hiding, of cowering, of waiting for the next blow to fall.
If I'm going to be destroyed, I'd rather see it coming.
I'd rather face the monster head-on than spend the rest of my life jumping at shadows.
I grab my bag and head for the door before I can change my mind.
The restaurant is in the financial district, a part of the city I rarely visit.
The buildings here are all glass and steel, monuments to wealth and power, their surfaces reflecting the pale autumn sky.
People move along the sidewalks with purpose, their expensive shoes clicking against concrete, their eyes fixed on destinations I can't imagine.
I feel out of place. Conspicuous. Like everyone can see that I don't belong here, that I'm a florist from a cramped apartment playing dress-up in a world that could swallow me whole.
Ristorante Umberto occupies the ground floor of a building that looks like it was designed to intimidate.
The entrance is understated—just a brass nameplate and a heavy wooden door—but the interior screams money.
White tablecloths, crystal glassware, the soft murmur of conversations conducted in hushed, important tones.
A ma?tre d' in a suit that probably cost more than my rent approaches me with a practiced smile.
"Welcome to Umberto's. Do you have a reservation?"
"I'm meeting someone. Gabriel Ambrose."
The name transforms his expression from polite to reverent. "Of course. Mr. Ambrose is expecting you. Right this way, please."
He leads me through the main dining room, past tables occupied by people who look like they make more money in a day than I make in a year. We stop at a door at the back of the restaurant—unmarked, unassuming—and the ma?tre d' opens it with a small bow.
"Mr. Ambrose. Your guest has arrived."
And there he is.
He's sitting at a table set for two, positioned so that his back is to the wall and his face is to the door. A predator's instinct, I realize. He wanted to see me the moment I walked in.
He's wearing a charcoal suit that fits him like it was sewn onto his body, a white shirt open at the collar, no tie. Casual elegance. The kind of effortless style that takes money and time, and the certainty that the world will arrange itself around your preferences.
He stands as I enter, and I'm struck again by how tall he is, how broad. How much physical space he occupies, how the air in the room seems to compress around him.
"Ms. Rivers." He smiles, and it's the same smile I saw at the market—warm, charming, utterly false. "Thank you for coming."
The ma?tre d' closes the door behind me, and I'm alone with him.
The private dining room is small but elegant. A single table, two chairs, a window overlooking a courtyard garden. Flowers everywhere—lilies, roses, orchids—but none of them are mine. None of them has the soul I would have given them.
I wonder if he notices. I wonder if that's why he wants me.
"Please, sit." He gestures to the chair across from him. "I've taken the liberty of ordering wine. I hope you don't mind."
I do mind. I mind everything about this situation. But I sit anyway, lowering myself into the chair with what I hope is composure, arranging my bag at my feet, folding my hands on the table like a proper professional.
"Thank you for meeting with me," I say. The words taste like ash.
"Thank you for calling." He settles back into his chair, watching me with those dark eyes that see too much. "I wasn't sure you would."
"I almost didn't."
The admission slips out before I can stop it. His eyebrows rise slightly—surprise, or perhaps pleasure.
"Honesty. I appreciate that." He pours wine into my glass, then his own. A deep red, expensive-looking. "Most people aren't honest with me. They tell me what they think I want to hear."
"I don't know what you want to hear."
"No." He lifts his glass, studies the wine against the light. "I suppose you don't."
A waiter appears with menus, recites the specials in a hushed voice, disappears again. I stare at the words on the page without seeing them, my appetite nonexistent.
"The risotto is excellent," Gabriel says. "If you're having trouble deciding."
"I'm not very hungry."
"Try to eat something. We have a lot to discuss, and I'd hate for you to faint."
Is that a concern? Mockery? I can't tell. His tone is light, his expression pleasant, and underneath it all, I can feel the weight of what he is, what he's done, pressing against me like a hand on my chest.
"The risotto, then," I say, just to end the discussion.
He orders for both of us—the risotto for me, something with lamb for him—and the waiter vanishes again. We're alone.
"So," Gabriel says, leaning forward slightly. "Let's talk business."
He outlines the arrangement with the precision of a man who's thought it through carefully.
Weekly retainer. Availability on a twenty-four-hour notice.
Exclusivity—I work for him and no one else for the duration of the contract.
In exchange, triple my usual rate, all expenses covered, access to wholesale accounts I couldn't afford on my own.
It's a generous offer. Obscenely generous. The kind of offer that would have made me weep with gratitude a month ago, before I knew what he was.
Now it feels like a gilded cage.
"Exclusivity," I repeat. "For how long?"
"Six months initially. Renewable by mutual agreement."
"And if I want to terminate early?"
"You won't."
The certainty in his voice makes my skin crawl. "But if I do?"
He considers the question, or pretends to. "There would be a buyout clause. Significant, but not unreasonable. I'm not trying to trap you, Ms. Rivers."
Liar. The word screams in my head, but I keep my expression neutral. "I'd want that in writing."
"Of course. My attorney will draft a formal contract. You're welcome to have your own lawyer review it."
I don't have a lawyer. I can barely afford groceries. But I nod as if this is a perfectly normal negotiation, as if I have any power here at all.
"What kind of events are we talking about?" I ask. "Specifically."
"Dinners, mostly. I entertain clients at the estate several times a month. Occasionally, larger gatherings—charity functions, holiday parties. And personal occasions." He pauses. "I have particular tastes, Ms. Rivers. Specific aesthetics I prefer. I'll want you to learn them."
"Learn them how?"
"By observation. By conversation." His eyes hold mine. "By spending time in my world."
There it is. The trap within the trap. He doesn't just want my flowers—he wants my presence. My proximity. My time.
He wants me.
The waiter returns with our food, breaking the tension. I stare at the risotto in front of me, creamy and fragrant, and force myself to pick up my fork. To take a bite. To chew and swallow like a normal person having a normal meal.
It tastes like nothing.
"You seem nervous," Gabriel observes.
"I'm not nervous."
"You've barely touched your food. You've checked the door three times since you sat down. And your hand is shaking." He nods toward my fork, which is indeed trembling slightly in my grip. "I don't bite, Ms. Rivers. Not unless asked."
Something about the way he says it—the dark humor, the hint of something predatory beneath the charm—makes my stomach lurch. For a moment, I'm back in that doorway, looking at him across a body and a pool of blood.
He sees the change in my expression. Of course he does. He sees everything.
"Are you all right?" he asks, and there's something in his voice now that almost sounds like genuine concern. Almost.
"Fine," I manage. "Just... It's warm in here."
"Shall I have them adjust the temperature?"
"No. I'm fine."
We eat in silence for a few minutes. Or rather, he eats; I push food around my plate, trying to look like I'm participating in this grotesque parody of a business lunch.
"I have a question," I say finally.
"Ask."
"Why me?"
He sets down his fork, giving me his full attention. "I told you. Your work is extraordinary."
"There are other florists. Better connected, more established. People who would kill for this kind of contract." The word kill comes out before I can stop it, and I see his mouth twitch—amusement? Acknowledgment?
"Perhaps," he says. "But they're not you."
"What does that mean?"
He leans back in his chair, studying me the way I might study a flower—assessing its structure, its colors, its potential.
"You have a gift," he says. "Not just for arrangement, but for seeing. You look at a space, and you understand what it needs. You look at a flower and you see its soul." He pauses. "That's rare, Ms. Rivers. That kind of perception. That kind of depth."
I don't know what to say. The compliment feels genuine, but coming from him, everything feels like a weapon.
"I want that gift working for me," he continues. "I want to surround myself with beautiful things, created by someone who understands beauty. Is that so difficult to believe?"
"Yes," I say before I can stop myself. "It is."
His smile widens. "Honesty again. I really do appreciate it."
The waiter clears our plates. Coffee is offered and declined—I don't think I could keep it down. Gabriel produces a document from somewhere, slides it across the table.
"The preliminary terms," he says. "Review them. Send any questions to my assistant. We can finalize next week."
I look at the document without really seeing it. Pages of legal language, clauses and subclauses, terms and conditions. A contract that will bind me to him for six months. Six months of working in his home, attending his events, existing in his orbit.
Six months in the serpent's coils.
"I'll need time to think about it," I say.
"Of course. Take the weekend." He stands, and I realize the meeting is over. "I'll have my driver take you home."
"That's not necessary—"
"I insist."
There's no room for argument in his tone. I gather my bag, tuck the document inside, and stand on legs that feel like they might collapse at any moment.
He walks me to the door of the private dining room, his hand hovering at the small of my back without quite touching. The ghost of contact, the promise of more.
"It was a pleasure, Ms. Rivers," he says. "I look forward to working with you."
"I haven't agreed yet."
"No." He opens the door, and the noise of the main dining room washes over us—silverware, conversation, the clink of glasses. "But you will."
I don't respond. I walk through the restaurant without looking back, feeling his eyes on me the whole way. The ma?tre d' escorts me to the entrance, where a black car is already waiting at the curb.
The driver opens the door for me, and I slide inside, sinking into leather seats that probably cost more than everything I own. The door closes. The car pulls away.
And I'm alone with the document in my bag and the taste of ash in my mouth and the certainty that I've just agreed to something I don't fully understand.
But underneath the fear, there's something else. A spark I didn't expect.
I'm inside now. Inside his world, inside his attention, inside the serpent's coils.
And maybe—just maybe—from the inside, I can find a way to survive.