Chapter 14 - Gabriel
Thursday arrives like a promise kept.
I've been counting the hours since her email confirmed attendance. Ninety-six hours of waiting, of preparation, of imagining her back in my space where she belongs. The anticipation has been almost unbearable—a constant hum beneath my skin, a hunger that no amount of distraction can quiet.
The dinner party is real, of course. Eight guests, carefully selected business associates who expect excellent food, fine wine, and the kind of discreet networking that happens at these events. I've hosted dozens of similar gatherings over the years, and I could manage them in my sleep.
But tonight is different. Tonight she'll be here.
I spend the morning in my study, pretending to work while watching the clock. Contracts go unsigned. Emails go unanswered. Josiah calls twice about the Henderson situation, and I let both calls go to voicemail.
None of it matters. Not today.
At 3:45, my phone buzzes with a message from the gate: Ms. Rivers has arrived.
Fifteen minutes early. Professional. Prepared.
Nervous.
I smile and close my laptop, abandoning any pretense of productivity. The real business of the evening is about to begin.
I don't go to meet her. That would be too eager, too obvious. Instead, I position myself in the library, which has a clear sightline to the entrance hall through a doorway I've left strategically ajar. I want to watch her arrive. I want to see her face when she steps back into this house.
The front door opens, and there she is.
She's dressed for work—simple black trousers, a soft gray blouse, her hair pulled back in a practical knot. She's carrying a large bag of supplies, and there's a determined set to her shoulders, a professional mask firmly in place.
But I see what she's trying to hide. The way her eyes dart around the entrance hall, lingering on the serpent carvings, the shadowed doorways, the corridor that leads to the east wing. She's remembering. She can't help but remember.
Her face is paler than it was at the restaurant. There are shadows under her eyes that makeup can't quite conceal. She's not sleeping well.
Good. Neither am I.
Eleanor, my assistant, appears to greet her. I watch them exchange words I can't hear—probably logistics, schedules, the mundane details of the evening's arrangements. Poppy nods, professional and composed, but her hands are gripping her bag too tightly. White-knuckled.
Eleanor leads her toward the ballroom, and I let them go. There will be time. The evening is long, and she's not going anywhere.
She's not going anywhere ever again.
I stay in the library for another twenty minutes, forcing myself to be patient. Then I make my way to the ballroom, taking the long route through the west corridor so I can approach without warning.
She's already transformed the space.
The tables are set with white linens and crystal, and she's working on the centerpieces—low arrangements of cream roses and trailing greenery, elegant and understated. Her movements are quick and precise, her focus absolute. She's good at this. Better than good.
I stop in the doorway and watch her work.
She doesn't notice me at first. She's too absorbed in what she's doing, her fingers moving among the stems with the same tenderness I observed at the gala. She talks to the flowers as she works—not words I can hear, just soft murmurs, like she's coaxing them into place.
It's oddly intimate, watching her like this. Like I'm seeing something private, something she wouldn't show me if she knew I was there.
Then she looks up, and our eyes meet.
The effect is immediate. Her whole body goes rigid, her hands freezing mid-motion. The color drains from her face, then rushes back in a flush that spreads from her cheeks down her neck.
"Mr. Ambrose." Her voice is steady, but I can hear the effort it costs her. "I didn't realize you were there."
"Please, don't let me interrupt." I step into the room, moving closer with deliberate slowness. "I just wanted to see how things were progressing."
"Fine. Everything's fine." She turns back to the flowers, but her movements are jerky now, her concentration broken. "I should have the centerpieces finished within the hour. The entryway arrangements are already done."
"I saw them. They're beautiful."
She doesn't respond. Doesn't look at me. Her fingers are trembling slightly as she adjusts a rose that was already perfectly positioned.
I move closer, circling the table until I'm standing beside her. Close enough to smell her shampoo—rosemary and mint, just as I remember. Close enough to see the pulse fluttering in her throat.
"You're nervous," I observe.
"I'm focused."
"You're nervous." I reach out and touch one of the roses, my fingers brushing against hers as I adjust a petal. She flinches but doesn't pull away. "There's no need to be. You're among friends here."
She does look at me then, and I see something flash in her eyes—anger, maybe, or defiance. "Is that what we are? Friends?"
"What would you prefer?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with implication. She holds my gaze for a long moment, her jaw tight, her breathing shallow.
"I'd prefer to finish my work," she says finally, turning back to the flowers. "If you'll excuse me."
A dismissal. She's dismissing me.
The audacity of it should irritate me. Instead, it delights me. She's not broken. She's not cowering. She's standing in my house, in my space, surrounded by my power, and she's telling me to leave her alone.
Magnificent.
"Of course," I say, stepping back. "I'll leave you to it. But Poppy—"
She stiffens at the use of her first name.
"—if you need anything, anything at all, don't hesitate to ask."
I leave before she can respond, carrying the image of her flushed face and trembling hands with me like a prize.
The dinner party begins at seven.
I play my role—the gracious host, the charming conversationalist, the powerful man who makes everyone feel important while revealing nothing of himself. The guests are pleased. The food is excellent. The wine flows freely.
And through it all, I watch her.
She moves through the edges of the evening like a ghost, adjusting arrangements, replacing wilted blooms, ensuring that every table is perfect. She's invisible to my guests—just another member of the staff, beneath their notice.
But she's not invisible to me. She never could be.
I track her across the room, noting every movement, every interaction. The way she smiles politely at a guest who bumps into her. The way she steps back into the shadows when someone important passes. The way she refuses, absolutely refuses, to look in my direction.
She knows I'm watching. I can tell by the tension in her shoulders, the careful way she angles her body away from me. She's aware of my attention like a physical weight, and she's doing everything she can to pretend she's not.
Around nine o'clock, I excuse myself from a conversation about real estate development and make my way to the side table where she's replacing a centerpiece that someone knocked askew.
"You've been avoiding me," I say quietly, standing close enough that my words are for her alone.
"I've been working." She doesn't look up from the flowers. "Isn't that what you're paying me for?"
"I'm paying you to be here. There's a difference."
Her hands still. When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper. "What do you want from me?"
The question again. The same question she asked at the restaurant, the same question that's been hanging between us since the moment she appeared in that doorway.
"I want you to look at me."
She doesn't move. For a long moment, I think she's going to refuse. Then, slowly, she raises her head and meets my eyes.
The impact is visceral. Heat and fear and something darker, all tangled together in her gaze. She's terrified of me. She's furious at me. And underneath it all, there's something else—a pull, a current, a recognition that matches my own.
"There you are," I murmur. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten how."
"I haven't forgotten anything." Her voice is hard. "Including what I saw in this house."
"I know you haven't. That's what makes this interesting."
"Interesting." She laughs, a bitter sound. "Is that what I am to you? Interesting?"
"Among other things."
A guest approaches—Henderson, of all people, wanting to discuss some tedious detail of our ongoing negotiations. I turn to deal with him, and by the time I look back, Poppy has vanished into the crowd.
I let her go. For now.
The guests begin leaving around eleven. Handshakes and air kisses, promises to call, the ritual farewells of people who do business in shadows. I stand at the door and play my part, smiling and nodding, counting the minutes until they're gone.
Finally, the last car pulls away, and the house falls quiet.
The staff are cleaning up, moving through the rooms with practiced efficiency. Eleanor appears with a tablet, wanting to debrief on the evening, but I wave her away.
"Tomorrow," I say. "I need to speak with Ms. Rivers first."
Eleanor's expression remains professionally neutral, but I catch the flicker of curiosity in her eyes. She knows better than to ask questions.
"Of course, sir. She's in the ballroom, packing up her supplies."
I find her exactly where Eleanor said she'd be.
The ballroom is dimmer now, most of the candles extinguished, the tables stripped of their linens. She's alone, kneeling beside a large bag, carefully wrapping the tools of her trade. Her back is to me, and she doesn't hear me approach.
I stop a few feet away and watch her work. Her movements are slower now, tired. Her hair has come loose from its knot, dark strands falling around her face. She looks smaller than she did earlier, diminished somehow.
Vulnerable.
"You did beautiful work tonight."
She jumps at my voice, spinning around to face me. Her hand goes to her chest, pressing against her heart.
"Jesus." She breathes. "You scared me."
"I apologize." I don't move closer. Not yet. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"Yes, you did." She stands, brushing off her knees. "You love startling people. It gives you a sense of power."
The observation is accurate enough to make me smile. "You're learning."
"I'm observant." She turns back to her bag, zipping it closed with more force than necessary. "Is there something you needed, Mr. Ambrose? I was about to leave."
"Gabriel."
"What?"
"My name is Gabriel. You should use it."
She stills, her back to me. I can see the tension in her spine, the rigid set of her shoulders.
"I'd prefer to keep things professional," she says.
"Would you?"
I close the distance between us, stopping just behind her. Close enough to feel the heat of her body, to smell the rosemary in her hair. Close enough to touch.
"Look at me, Poppy."
She doesn't move. Her breathing has quickened; I can see the rise and fall of her shoulders, faster than before.
"Look at me."
Slowly, she turns.
We're inches apart. I can see the fear in her eyes—but also the defiance, the anger, the stubborn refusal to cower. She's magnificent like this, trapped and terrified and still fighting.
"What do you want?" she whispers. "The truth this time."
I reach out and touch her face. Just my fingertips, brushing along her jaw, tilting her chin up so she has no choice but to meet my gaze. Her skin is soft, warm. She trembles at the contact but doesn't pull away.
"I want everything," I tell her. "I want to know every secret you've ever kept, every fear you've ever hidden, every dark thought you've never spoken aloud. I want to take you apart piece by piece and see what's underneath. I want—"
I stop myself. The words are too much, too raw. I've said more than I intended.
She stares at me, eyes wide, lips parted. Her pulse is racing—I can see it jumping in her throat.
"That's not a job description," she manages.
"No. It isn't."
The moment stretches, electric and fragile. I could kiss her. I could pull her against me and take what I want, what I've wanted since the moment I first saw her kneeling among black dahlias.
She wouldn't stop me. I can see it in her eyes—the desire she doesn't want to feel, fighting against the fear she can't escape. She's caught between them, paralyzed, waiting for me to make the choice for her.
But that's not what I want.
I want her to choose. I want her to step toward me, not away. I want her to surrender because she wants to, not because she has no other option.
So I drop my hand and step back.
The loss of contact seems to break something in her. She blinks, shakes her head slightly, like she's waking from a dream.
"I should go," she says, her voice unsteady.
"The car is waiting."
She grabs her bag and moves past me, not quite running but close. At the doorway, she stops and looks back.
"This isn't..." She swallows. "This isn't what I signed up for."
"Yes," I say quietly. "It is."
She leaves without another word.
I stand alone in the empty ballroom, surrounded by the ghosts of flowers and the echo of her presence.
Something has changed. The wall between us has cracked.
It's only a matter of time now.