Chapter 30 - Gabriel
I need to see my mother. I'll be back in a few days. Please don't follow me.
I read it three times, each word landing like a blow. She's leaving. Not permanently—she said she'll be back—but she's leaving, and she's asking me not to follow.
Asking. Not demanding. Not threatening. Asking.
Please don't follow me.
My fingers move before my brain can catch up, typing a response: Poppy, please. Let me explain—
I send it and wait. One minute. Two. Five.
Nothing.
I try calling. The phone rings once, then cuts to voicemail. She's turned it off. She's shut me out completely.
I stand in the middle of my study, phone in hand, and feel something I haven't felt in years: helplessness. Complete, utter helplessness. The woman I've been trying to hold onto is slipping through my fingers, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
No. That's not true. There are plenty of things I can do.
I can have Hutton track her car. I can send a team to follow at a distance, to monitor her movements, to ensure she doesn't disappear.
I can show up at her mother's apartment uninvited and demand she listen to me.
I can use every resource at my disposal to keep her close, to prevent her from making any decisions without my input.
That's what I would normally do. That's what the old Gabriel would do—the one who saw obstacles as challenges to be overcome, who never let anyone slip beyond his control.
But something stops me.
Please don't follow me.
She asked. And if I ignore that request—if I prove that her wishes mean nothing when they conflict with my desires—then I'll confirm everything she accused me of yesterday.
That I don't trust her. That I only know how to possess, not to respect.
That whatever we have is just another form of control.
Is that who I want to be? Is that the man I want her to see when she looks at me?
I sink into the chair behind my desk, the phone still clutched in my hand, and try to think clearly.
She said she'll be back. She didn't say she's leaving forever, didn't say she never wants to see me again. She said she needs to see her mother, and she'll be back in a few days.
Maybe that's true. Maybe she just needs time and space to process everything, and when she's had that, she'll come home.
Or maybe she's lying. Maybe "a few days" is a polite fiction, a way to escape without triggering my pursuit. Maybe she's already planning to disappear—to take Zach's offer, to vanish into whatever network of safe houses he's prepared.
I don't know. That's the hell of it. I don't know what she's thinking, what she's planning, what she'll decide. For the first time in my adult life, I'm completely in the dark.
And I have to stay there. Because if I chase her, I lose her for certain. But if I let her go...
I might lose her anyway.
***
The morning passes in a haze of whiskey and silence.
I don't go to the office. I don't take calls. I sit in my study and stare at the walls, replaying every moment of the past few weeks, cataloging every mistake I made.
I should have told her immediately. The moment I learned the truth from Bryan, I should have sat her down and explained everything. I should have trusted her to understand, to see the situation clearly, to make her own judgments.
Instead, I hid. I lied. I used her body to distract her, trying to bind her so tightly that the truth wouldn't matter when it finally came out.
I've never been a coward before. I've faced death, faced enemies who wanted to destroy everything I built, faced the darkest parts of myself without flinching. But Poppy... Poppy made me a coward. The thought of losing her was so unbearable that I chose deception over honesty, control over trust.
And now I'm paying the price.
Around noon, Josiah appears in my doorway.
"You look like hell," he observes, stepping into the study without waiting for an invitation. "I heard the florist left."
"She went to see her mother."
"Is that what she told you?" He settles into the chair across from my desk, his expression carefully neutral. "And you believed her?"
"I don't have a choice."
"You have plenty of choices. You could have her followed. You could—"
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "She asked me not to follow her. I'm honoring that request."
Josiah's eyebrows rise. "Since when do you honor requests that conflict with your interests?"
"Since now."
He studies me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or concern. "You really have fallen for her, haven't you? This isn't just an obsession anymore."
I don't answer. I don't need to.
"Gabriel." Josiah leans forward, his voice dropping. "I've known you my entire life. I've watched you build an empire, watched you eliminate anyone who got in your way. I've never seen you like this—paralyzed, uncertain, willing to cede control to someone else."
"What's your point?"
"My point is that this woman has compromised you. Whatever she decides, whatever she does with the information she has, you've made yourself vulnerable in ways that could destroy everything."
"I know."
"And you're willing to accept that risk?"
I think about Poppy. About the way she looked at me in the garden, tears streaming down her face, demanding to know why I didn't trust her. About the way she felt in my arms, soft and warm and achingly real. About the way she saw me—truly saw me—from the very beginning.
"Yes," I say. "I'm willing to accept that risk."
Josiah shakes his head slowly. "Then I hope she's worth it. Because if she's not—if she betrays you, if she goes to the police, if she disappears with Zach—"
"She won't."
"How can you be sure?"
I can't. That's the whole point. That's what trust means—believing in someone even when you can't be certain, even when they have every reason to hurt you.
"I just am," I say. "Now leave me alone."
Josiah rises, pausing at the door. "For what it's worth, I hope you're right. I hope she comes back." He hesitates. "But if she doesn't, you need to be prepared for what comes next."
He leaves without waiting for a response.
I pour another whiskey and stare at the wall.
***
Hutton calls around three.
"Sir. I have an update on Ms. Rivers."
I grip the phone tighter. "Go ahead."
"Her car arrived at her mother's apartment building approximately two hours ago. She went inside and hasn't emerged since. Our team is monitoring from a distance, as instructed."
I should feel relieved. She's doing exactly what she said she would—visiting her mother, not running. But relief doesn't come. Just more of the gnawing uncertainty that's been eating at me all day.
"And Mercer?"
A pause. "That's the other thing I wanted to report. Zach left the city about an hour ago. He's heading in the same general direction as Ms. Rivers."
Ice floods my veins. "He's following her?"
"We don't know for certain. It could be a coincidence—he has associates in that area. But given his interest in her..."
It's not coincidence. Zach knows Poppy left the estate. He's been watching, waiting for exactly this moment—the moment when she's vulnerable, away from my protection, emotionally devastated, and searching for answers.
"Where is he now?"
"About forty minutes from her mother's location. We're tracking his vehicle."
Forty minutes. That's nothing. By the time I could get there, he could already be at Linda's door, already poisoning Poppy further against me.
"Sir? Do you want us to intervene?"
I close my eyes, weighing my options.
If I send a team to intercept Zach, I'm breaking my promise. I'm following her, even if indirectly. I'm proving that her wishes don't matter when they conflict with my desires.
But if I do nothing and Zach reaches her...
"Monitor only," I say finally. "Don't engage unless he makes direct contact with Poppy. If he does, call me immediately."
"Understood, sir."
I end the call and stand at the window, staring out at the gardens where I watched her disappear just yesterday.
She asked me not to follow. She didn't ask me not to protect her.
There's a difference. I have to believe there's a difference.
***
The afternoon crawls by, each minute stretching into eternity.
I try to work—reviewing contracts, answering emails, the mundane business of running an empire. But my mind won't focus. Every few minutes, I check my phone, hoping for a message that doesn't come.
Around five, Benedict calls.
"Brother." His voice is smooth, amused. "I've been hearing the most interesting rumors about your little florist. Is it true she's fled the estate?"
"She's visiting her mother."
"Is that what we're calling it?" A soft laugh. "Word around town is that you've been having some... domestic troubles. That your pretty pet has learned things that upset her."
"Word around town should mind its own business."
"Ah, but your business is so much more entertaining than anyone else's." Benedict's tone sharpens beneath the charm. "What happened, Gabriel? What did she find out that sent her running?"
"Nothing that concerns you."
"Everything concerns me. We're family, remember? What affects you affects all of us." A pause. "Does this have something to do with Zachary Mercer? I've heard he's been sniffing around your territory lately."
I don't answer. I don't trust myself to speak without revealing more than I should.
"Interesting," Benedict murmurs. "Very interesting. Well, if you need any assistance with your little problem, you know where to find me. I'm always happy to help a brother in need."
He hangs up before I can respond.
I set the phone down carefully, resisting the urge to throw it against the wall. Benedict's "help" is the last thing I need—his idea of assistance usually involves making situations worse in ways that benefit him.
But he's right about one thing: whatever happens with Poppy will affect the whole family. The Brotherhood. Everything I've built.
If she talks—if she goes to the police, if she exposes what she knows—it won't just be my life that unravels. It will be everyone connected to me.
Is she capable of that? Would she destroy me, knowing the collateral damage it would cause?
I don't think so. I don't want to think so.
But I've been wrong about her before.
***
Night falls, and still no word.
I've stopped drinking—I need my mind clear, need to be ready for whatever comes next. I sit in the darkness of my study, watching the shadows lengthen across the floor, and wait.
The sketch is in my hands again. Her serpent and dahlia, worn soft from handling. I've looked at it so many times I could recreate it from memory—every line, every curve, the way the serpent coils around the flower without crushing it.
She saw us before she knew us. She drew this image months before we met, before she had any conscious knowledge of who I was or what I would become to her.
What does that mean? Is it fate? Coincidence? Some deep recognition that transcends rational explanation?
I don't know. I've never believed in fate, never trusted anything I couldn't see and touch and control. But this sketch... this sketch suggests something beyond my understanding. Some connection that existed before either of us chose it.
Maybe that's why I can't let her go. Maybe that's why, despite everything—the lies, the violence, the impossible history between us—I still believe she'll come back.
She has to come back. Because whatever this is between us, it's not finished. It's not something that can be severed cleanly, discarded like a mistake.
We're bound together. By blood, by death, by a drawing she made before we ever met.
She'll understand that eventually. She has to.
My phone buzzes with a message from Hutton: Zach has checked into a hotel fifteen minutes from the mother's apartment. No direct contact with the target. Continuing to monitor.
Fifteen minutes away. He's close—too close—but he hasn't made his move yet. He's waiting, just like I am. Waiting to see what Poppy decides.
We're both circling her, predators who can't look away from the same prey.
Except she's not prey. She never was. That's what I failed to understand from the beginning.
She's something else entirely. Something that doesn't fit into the categories I've used to organize my world.
And that's why I can't control this situation. Can't manipulate it to my advantage. Can't do anything except sit in the darkness and hope.
Hope that she'll forgive me.
Hope that she'll choose me.
Hope that whatever she's telling her mother right now, whatever truths are being exchanged in that modest apartment, they'll lead her back to me instead of away.
I set down the sketch and close my eyes.
Tomorrow. Everything changes tomorrow.
Either she comes back, or she doesn't. Either we find a way forward, or we don't.
But tonight, all I can do is wait.
And trust.