Chapter 21 - Poppy #2
Everything about him seems normal. Pleasant, even. A potential client approaching me in a flower market, interested in my work. It happens all the time, or it used to, before Gabriel consumed my life.
But there's something in his eyes. Something that doesn't match the warmth of his smile.
"I'm actually exclusive to a client right now," I say. "I'm not taking new work."
"Ah, yes. The Ambrose account." His smile doesn't waver. "Quite a step up from weddings and funerals. Congratulations."
Ice slides down my spine. He knows. He knows who I'm working for—or at least, who I'm supposed to be working for.
"How did you—"
"Small world, the floral industry. Word gets around." He waves a hand dismissively. "I don't mean to intrude. I just wanted to introduce myself. I've heard such good things about your talent, and I always like to put a face to a reputation."
He's lying. I can feel it, the way I felt Gabriel watching me before I ever saw his face. This man didn't approach me by accident. He knew exactly who I was and exactly where to find me.
"I should go," I say. "My driver is waiting."
"Of course, of course. I won't keep you." He reaches into his pocket and produces a card—plain white, expensive stock, just a name and a phone number. "In case you ever find yourself with time for new clients. Or if you just want to talk."
"Talk about what?"
His smile softens into something that almost looks like sympathy.
"About what it's like to be caught in someone else's web.
About powerful men and the secrets they keep.
About doors that lock from the outside." He presses the card into my hand before I can refuse.
"Some of us have been where you are, Ms. Rivers. Some of us found our way out."
I stare at him, my mind racing. He knows. He knows about Gabriel, about my situation, about things he shouldn't possibly know.
"Who are you?"
"Just a man who's learned the hard way what happens when you get too close to certain families." He steps back, his expression unreadable. "Take care of yourself, Ms. Rivers. And if you ever need someone who understands... well, you have my number."
He turns and disappears into the crowd before I can respond.
I stand frozen in the middle of the market, the card burning in my hand, my heart hammering against my ribs.
What it's like to be caught in someone else's web.
Powerful men and the secrets they keep.
Some of us found our way out.
He was talking about Gabriel. He has to be. But how does he know? And what does he want?
I look down at the card. Plain white, expensive stock. Just a name.
Zachary Mercer.
The name means nothing to me. I've never heard it before, never seen it in any of the articles I've read about the Ambroses, never encountered it in my research into the Brotherhood.
But the way he looked at me. The things he said. The careful, deliberate nature of the encounter.
This wasn't a coincidence. This was calculated.
I should tell Gabriel. I should show him the card, describe the conversation, let him handle whatever threat this represents. He warned me someone was asking questions. This must be connected.
But something stops me.
Maybe it's the memory of Gabriel's face when he said I'm handling it—the dismissiveness, the assumption that I couldn't understand or participate in my own protection.
Maybe it's the creeping sense that there are things he's not telling me, secrets layered beneath secrets, and I'm stumbling through his world blind.
Maybe it's just the small, stubborn part of me that wants something that's mine. Something he doesn't control.
I slip the card into my pocket and walk out of the market.
James is waiting exactly where he said he'd be. He takes my bags without comment, loads them into the trunk, and holds the door for me as if nothing has changed.
Maybe nothing has.
Or maybe everything has, and I just don't know it yet.
The drive back to the estate is silent. I stare out the window, watching the city recede, my hand resting on the pocket where Zach's card is hidden.
Some of us have been where you are.
Some of us found our way out.
Is that what I want? A way out?
A month ago, the answer would have been obvious. Yes. Yes, of course. I was trapped, coerced, held captive by a man who'd destroyed my life to make me need him. Escape was the only goal, the only hope, the only future I could imagine.
But now...
Now I'm not sure.
Now I wake up in his bed and feel something other than fear. Now I watch him move through his world—powerful, dangerous, utterly in control—and feel something that might be admiration. Now I let him do things to my body that I never imagined wanting, and I want more, always more.
Now I'm starting to forget why I should want to leave.
Is that Stockholm syndrome? Trauma bonding? Some psychological defense mechanism, I don't have a name for?
Or is it something else? Something real, something dangerous, something that defies the categories I've used to make sense of my life?
I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.
Except that my breasts are tender and I've been nauseous for three days and my period is—
I stop the thought before it can fully form. Count backward in my head, trying to remember dates that suddenly seem very important.
When was my last period? Before the gala? During the first week of the contract?
I can't remember. I can't remember.
The estate appears through the trees, massive and beautiful and terrifying. Home. Prison. The serpent's den.
All of the above.
I go straight to the room that's officially mine—the guest suite Gabriel assigned me, though I've never slept there. I tell the staff I need to rest, close the door, and pull out the card.
Zachary Mercer.
I could throw it away. Pretend the encounter never happened. Go back to Gabriel's bed tonight and let his hands wipe the memory clean.
Instead, I open the drawer of the nightstand and slip the card inside, beneath a layer of unused stationery.
A secret. A door I haven't decided whether to open.
But the choice is mine.
For the first time since the gala, something in my life is entirely, completely mine.
I close the drawer and sit on the edge of the bed, my hand drifting unconsciously to my stomach.
It's nothing, I tell myself. Stress. Exhaustion. A delayed cycle from the upheaval of the past month.
But even as I think the words, I know I'm going to need to find out for certain.
Soon.