Chapter 27 - Poppy
I wake to the memory of Gabriel's hands on my throat.
Not squeezing—never quite squeezing—but holding. Controlling. A reminder of how easily he could hurt me if he chose to. A reminder that every breath I take is one he allows.
My wrists ache where the silk ties bound them. When I lift my arms, I can see the faint marks—red lines circling my skin like bracelets. Like brands. Like evidence of everything I let him do to me last night.
You're mine. Whatever happens, whatever secrets you're keeping, you're mine.
His words echo in my head as I lie in the wreckage of his bed, staring at the ceiling.
He knew. Even as he was tying me up, even as he was fucking me senseless, he knew I was hiding something.
He was trying to claim me hard enough to make me forget my secrets, to make me forget myself, to make me nothing but his.
And it almost worked.
But not quite.
I turn my head and find his side of the bed empty, the sheets cold. He's gone again—meetings, business, the endless machinery of his empire grinding on without pause. I should be grateful for the reprieve. Instead, I feel the absence like a wound.
What is wrong with me?
The question has become a constant refrain, a drumbeat beneath every thought. What kind of woman falls for her stalker? What kind of woman lets a murderer tie her up and bring her to screaming orgasm? What kind of woman keeps his secrets instead of running to the police?
What kind of woman agrees to meet his enemy behind his back?
That kind of woman. Apparently, that's the kind of woman I am.
I force myself out of bed and into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the evidence of last night—his scent on my skin, the soreness between my thighs, the phantom pressure of his hand on my throat.
By the time I'm dressed, I almost look normal.
Almost look like someone who isn't about to betray everything.
Gabriel finds me in the kitchen, nursing a cup of chamomile tea that Mrs. Bloom pressed into my hands. He's dressed for business—dark suit, crisp shirt, the armor he wears to face the world.
"You're up early," he says, crossing to pour himself coffee.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Neither could I." He leans against the counter, studying me over the rim of his cup. "Are you feeling better? You seemed... overwhelmed last night."
Overwhelmed. That's one word for it.
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that." He sets down his coffee and moves toward me, his hand coming up to cup my chin. "But I don't think you mean it."
***
James drops me at Dawson Floral Supply, a warehouse on the east side of the city that I've used for years. It's the perfect cover—familiar enough to be believable, far enough from The Willow café that I can slip away without being seen.
"I'll be at least an hour," I tell him as I climb out of the car. "Maybe longer. They're doing inventory, and I need to check several shipments."
"I'll wait here, miss."
"You don't have to—there's a coffee shop around the corner. I'll text when I'm done."
He hesitates, clearly uncertain. Gabriel has undoubtedly given him orders to watch me closely. But I smile, the picture of innocence, and eventually he nods.
"I'll be nearby if you need me."
I wait until his car disappears around the corner before I move. The warehouse has a back entrance that opens onto an alley—I've used it before, in my previous life, when I needed to load heavy orders without blocking the main street.
Now I use it to escape.
The taxi I called is waiting two blocks away. I slide into the back seat, give the driver the address, and spend the entire ride trying to calm my racing heart.
This is a mistake. This is a terrible mistake.
But I don't tell the driver to turn around. I don't go back to James, back to the estate, back to the golden cage that's become my life.
I need to know the truth. Whatever the cost.
The Willow café is exactly as Zach described—small, nondescript, tucked away on a quiet street where no one looks twice at strangers. The kind of place people go when they don't want to be found.
I push through the door and scan the interior. It's nearly empty—a few scattered customers, the hiss of an espresso machine, the murmur of low conversation. And there, in the corner, seated at a table with a clear view of the entrance, is Zachary Mercer.
He rises when he sees me, that warm smile spreading across his face. The smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Ms. Rivers. I'm so glad you came."
"Let's make this quick." I slide into the seat across from him, my hands clasped tightly in my lap to hide their trembling. "You said you have information about my father. That's the only reason I'm here."
"Straight to business. I appreciate that." He signals to the waitress, ordering tea for both of us, and waits until she's gone before continuing. "How much do you know about your family history, Poppy? About where you come from?"
"Very little. My mother never talked about my father. Just said he was a mistake from her past."
"And you never pushed? Never tried to find out more?"
"I tried once. When I was sixteen. I found some old papers in her closet—letters, I think. She caught me before I could read them and burned them right in front of me." The memory still stings. "She said some things are better left buried."
"Your mother was protecting you. Or trying to." Zach leans back in his chair, his expression shifting to something that looks almost like sympathy. "But you're not a child anymore. And the things she buried have a way of digging themselves up."
"Then tell me. Stop dancing around it and just tell me."
He nods slowly. "Your father's name was Dwayne Thomas."
The name means nothing to me. No flash of recognition, no buried memory surfacing. Just a name—two syllables that should carry weight but don't.
"He was a teacher," Zach continues. "At a private school called St. Augustine's College. Twenty-seven years ago, he met a young woman named Linda Marsh. Your mother. They started dating. She fell in love with him—or thought she did. He was charming, attentive, everything a young woman could want."
"But?"
"But Dwayne Thomas was not what he seemed.
" Zach's voice hardens. "Underneath the charm, he was a predator.
He used his position at the school to torment his students—boys, mostly.
Teenagers who had no one to protect them.
Not with fists—Dwayne was too smart for that.
He used words, manipulation, systematic cruelty designed to destroy from the inside out.
He was careful, calculated, protected by powerful connections that made sure no one asked too many questions. "
My stomach turns. "My mother found out?"
"She found out. I don't know exactly how—perhaps she discovered evidence, perhaps one of his victims reached out to her. What I do know is that by the time she was pregnant with you, she knew exactly what kind of monster she was carrying a child for."
"So she left him."
"She tried. But Dwayne didn't accept rejection.
He stalked her, threatened her, made it clear that she and the baby belonged to him and always would.
" Zach pauses. "So your mother ran. While she was still pregnant with you, she changed her name, covered her tracks, and disappeared.
She escaped before you were born. Before Dwayne could get his hands on either of you. "
I think about my childhood. The constant moving, the paranoia, the packed bag in the back of the closet. My mother looking over her shoulder at shadows, jumping at unexpected sounds, never quite relaxing, no matter how safe we seemed.
"She spent my whole life running from him."
"Yes. But here's the part she never knew." Zach leans forward, his voice dropping. "When your mother was pregnant with you, Dwayne Thomas was killed."
The words don't make sense. I hear them, but they don't compute.
"Killed?"
"Murdered." Zach reaches into his jacket and withdraws a manila envelope, setting it on the table between us. "The official story was an accident—a fall, a blow to the head, nothing suspicious. But there was no accident. One of Dwayne's victims decided to stop being prey."
"One of his victims?"
"A sixteen-year-old student at St. Augustine's. A boy who had been suffering under Dwayne's torments for two years and finally found the courage—or the rage—to fight back."
My hands are shaking. I know what he's going to say. I know, even before he says it, whose name is in that envelope.
"Who?"
Zach slides the envelope toward me. "Gabriel Ambrose."
The world goes silent.
I hear the words, but they don't penetrate. They hover in the air between us, meaningless sounds that refuse to become meaning. Gabriel Ambrose. Gabriel. The man in my bed. The man whose child is growing inside me.
"You're lying."
"I'm not." Zach's voice is gentle now, almost kind. "Open the envelope, Poppy. See for yourself."
My hands move without my permission, reaching for the manila paper, pulling it toward me. Inside, I find documents—old police reports with sections redacted, official-looking papers bearing the seal of organizations I don't recognize, photographs faded with age.
And pages torn from a journal. Handwritten, the ink faded but legible.
I start to read.
September 14th. The new student in my advanced Latin class shows promise. Gabriel Ambrose—one of the Ambrose family. I'll need to be careful with this one. Powerful connections. But there's something in his eyes when he looks at me. Something that tells me he'll break beautifully.
My stomach heaves. I flip to another page.
October 30th. Gabriel stayed after class today, as instructed. He's learning his place. They always do, eventually. The proud ones are the most satisfying when they finally crumble.
I can't read anymore. I shove the papers back into the envelope, my hands trembling so badly I can barely fold the flap.
"Your father was a monster," Zach says quietly.
"Gabriel killed him. At sixteen years old, he strangled Dwayne Thomas in a bathroom at St. Augustine's and watched him die.
And then his family—his father, the Brotherhood—they made it all disappear.
No investigation, no consequences. Just a tragic accident and a promising young man with his whole future ahead of him. "
"He was a victim." The words come out before I can stop them. "If what you're saying is true—if Dwayne was doing those things to him—then Gabriel was—"
"A victim who became a predator." Zach's expression hardens. "That kill was the first of many, Poppy. Gabriel Ambrose developed a taste for it that night. He's been killing ever since—anyone who threatens him, anyone who gets in his way. You saw it yourself, didn't you? At the gala?"
Jack Woolworth. Blood pooling on marble floors. Gabriel's face in the candlelight, peaceful and terrible.
"Your mother spent twenty-five years running from a ghost," Zach continues. "She never knew Dwayne was dead. Never knew she was free. All that fear, all that hiding—for nothing. And now you're in the same trap she was, bound to another monster who will never let you go."
"He didn't know." My voice sounds distant, disconnected from my body. "Gabriel didn't know who I was. He couldn't have—"
"Maybe not at first. But he knows now. He's known for days.
" Zach leans forward. "I have sources inside his organization.
He went to see Bryan Vanderwal earlier this week—one of the old Brotherhood members who was there when Dwayne died.
Bryan told him everything. Gabriel knows he killed your father, Poppy.
And he hasn't told you. He's been sharing your bed every night, knowing what he took from you, and he hasn't said a single word. "
Last night. His hands on my throat. His voice in my ear: Whatever happens, remember that I never meant to hurt you.
He knew. Even then, he knew.
"Why are you telling me this?" My voice breaks on the words. "What do you want?"
"I want you to have the truth. The truth no one else will give you." Zach slides another card across the table—different from the first one, this one with an address printed in small, neat letters. "And I want to offer you a choice."
"A choice?"
"Gabriel Ambrose has destroyed your life once.
He stalked you, manipulated you, trapped you in his world.
He'll never let you go willingly—men like him don't release their possessions.
" Zach's voice softens. "But you don't have to be his possession.
When you're ready to leave, come to this address.
I can help you disappear. Give you a new life, far from the Brotherhood and everyone connected to it. "
I stare at the card. A new life. Freedom. Escape.
Everything I thought I wanted, back when this nightmare began.
"Think about it," Zach says, rising from his seat. "But don't think too long. If Gabriel realizes you know the truth, he'll do whatever it takes to keep you. You need to decide before that happens."
He leaves money on the table for the tea neither of us touched, then walks out of the café without looking back.
I sit alone in the silence, the envelope of horrors spread before me, tears streaming down my face.
My father was a monster. Gabriel killed him. Gabriel knew, and didn't tell me.
And I'm carrying his child. The grandchild of the man he murdered.
My hand drifts to my stomach, pressing against the flatness that hides such an enormous secret. My mother ran from Dwayne Thomas while pregnant with me. Now I'm pregnant too, and facing the same impossible choice.
Run, or stay.
Escape, or surrender.
Freedom, or the serpent's coils.
I don't know how long I sit there—minutes, hours, an eternity. The café empties and fills again around me. The tea grows cold. The light through the windows shifts from afternoon gold to evening gray.
Finally, I gather the envelope and the card and tuck them into my purse. I wipe my face with a napkin, trying to erase the evidence of my tears. I text James that I'm ready to be picked up, then take a taxi back to the floral supply warehouse to maintain my lie.
The drive back to the estate is silent. James doesn't comment on my red eyes, my pale face, the way my hands won't stop shaking. Either he doesn't notice, or he knows better than to ask.
Gabriel is waiting when I arrive. He pulls me into his arms, kisses my forehead, asks about my day. I give him answers that sound normal, that sound like a woman who didn't just learn her lover killed her father.
But that night, I don't sleep.
I lie awake in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, Zach's card hidden in the lining of my purse, and try to figure out what the hell I'm going to do.