Charlotte Ellis
I am in the Petals and Promises studio at six in the morning conditioning stems for the gala's final delivery when Sebastian Ashford calls my mobile from a number I do not recognise.
I answer because I always answer unknown numbers. Suppliers use different phones. Brides panic from hotel landlines. Venues call from switchboards that display nothing useful.
"Charlotte." His voice is warm, unhurried, as though we are old friends catching up over coffee. "I hope I haven't woken you."
I set down the conditioning knife. The studio smells of cold water and green stems and the particular warmth of a space I have cared about for years. Sebastian's voice does not belong here.
"I've been awake for an hour." I keep my tone neutral. Professional. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm calling as a courtesy," he says. "I thought you should know the full context of the commission you've taken on."
I wait. Silence is a tool I have learned to use with difficult clients. Sebastian does not seem like a man who handles silence well.
He proves me right within four seconds.
"There's a legal question about the estate," he continues. "One that may affect who actually has authority to commission anything on the property. I wouldn't want you caught in the middle of something complicated."
The Hawkins and Carr letterhead. The document I saw in Alexander's study that made his face go still. The file he closed before I could read the heading.
"The contract is signed," I say. "The work is complete. If there's a dispute about payment, you can take it up with your brother's solicitor."
"This isn't about payment." His laugh is soft, practiced. "I simply thought you deserved to know that my brother's position may not be as secure as he's led you to believe."
"Thank you for your concern." I pick up the conditioning knife again. My hands are steady. "I need to get back to work."
"Charlotte..."
"Good morning, Mr Ashford."
I hang up before he can say the next thing he has clearly prepared.
My phone sits on the worktable, dark and silent. I stare at it for thirty seconds before I return to the roses.
Jess arrives at seven with two coffees and her bag already over her shoulder. She reads my face immediately.
"What happened?"
I give her the short version. Sebastian Ashford called. Implied the commission might be legally complicated. I do not think he cares about my contract at all.
Jess sets her coffee down without drinking it. "He's trying to find out how much Alexander has told you."
I look at my conditioning buckets. "I think you're right."
"And how much has Alexander told you?"
The answer sits heavy in my chest. Some things. Not everything. Enough to know there is more. Not enough to know what shape it takes.
"Enough to know Sebastian is not calling out of concern for my business."
Jess nods slowly. "Are you going to tell Alexander about this?"
"Yes."
"Today?"
"Today."
She picks up her coffee again. Drinks. "Good. Because whatever this is, you shouldn't be the one managing information between two brothers who clearly have a problem with each other."
She is right. I know she is right. I finish conditioning the roses and load the van myself because the physical work steadies something in me that has been rattling since Sebastian's voice came through my phone.
The drive to Ashford House takes two hours. I spend most of it thinking about the document in Alexander's study. The way he closed the door without explanation. The things he has almost told me and then stepped back from, over and over, like a man who has learned that disclosure is dangerous.
Mrs Hartley meets me at the service entrance. The east corridor has been cleared exactly as Alexander promised. She directs me toward the ballroom with her usual efficiency, but there is something in her expression I cannot quite read.
"Lord Bodington is in the east corridor," she says. "He asked to be told when you arrived."
I nod. "Thank you."
Alexander meets me before I reach the ballroom. He is wearing the grey sweater again, the one with the soft elbows, and there is something in his face that makes me think he did not sleep well.
He helps me carry the larger arrangements without being asked. We work in near silence, moving through the narrow east corridor side by side with our arms full of white peonies, and the light is exactly as I described it on the first day.
"You were right about the anemone," he says, without looking at me.
I adjust the arrangement in my arms. "I usually am. About flowers."
We set the final vase down in the ballroom. The arch is holding. The peonies are opening exactly on schedule. Everything I built here is working exactly as I designed it.
Alexander stands beside me, close enough that I can smell the clean green scent of whatever soap he uses. Close enough that I am aware of exactly how much space exists between his shoulder and mine.
"Sebastian called me this morning," I say.
He goes still. Not the kind of stillness that means he is thinking. The kind that means something significant is happening underneath it.
"What did he say?"
"That there's a legal question about the estate. That your position might not be as secure as you've led me to believe." I turn to face him. "That I should know the full context of the commission I've taken on."
Alexander's jaw tightens. Just once, just slightly, and then his face smooths back to neutral.
"He's not wrong," he says quietly. "About the legal question."
"I know." I hold his gaze. "I saw the letterhead in your study. Hawkins and Carr. Something about the estate."
"You didn't read it."
"You closed the door before I could."
He exhales slowly. The sound is heavy with something I cannot name.
"I should have told you sooner," he says. "I was trying to manage it. The situation. The information. I thought if I could solve the problem before you had to know about it..."
"You were trying to protect me."
"Yes."
"From what?"
He turns toward the window. The morning light catches the planes of his face, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands have curled into loose fists at his sides.
"From my family," he says. "From the mess I was born into. From the weight of being connected to me while Sebastian is trying to prove I shouldn't have any of this."
I step closer. Not close enough to touch him. Close enough that he has to look at me.
"I don't need to be protected from information," I say. "I need you to tell me what's actually happening."
He looks at me for a long moment. Something in his expression shifts.
"Come back tomorrow," he says. "After the deliveries are done. I'll tell you everything."
"Why not now?"
"Because I need to speak to my solicitor first. I need to understand exactly what I'm telling you." He pauses. "And because I want to tell you the truth, not the version I've been telling myself."
I hold his gaze. The ballroom is very quiet around us. The peonies are perfectly still.
"All right," I say finally. "Tomorrow."
He nods. Something in his shoulders loosens, just slightly.
We finish the arrangements in a different kind of silence. Not uncomfortable. Not easy either. The silence of two people who have agreed to a conversation they are both preparing for.
Alexander walks me to the service entrance when I am done. He opens the van door for me the way he always does, his hand on the frame, his body angled to give me space while still being close enough to touch.
"Thank you," he says. "For telling me about Sebastian's call."
"He put his card in my kit bag. The first day. I should have mentioned it sooner."
"I know." His voice is quiet. "Mrs Hartley found it in the hallway after you left."
I look at him. "You knew?"
"I knew."
"And you didn't say anything."
"I was hoping he would leave you alone." He meets my eyes. "I was wrong."
I get into the van. He closes the door carefully, his hand lingering on the frame for a moment longer than necessary.
"Tomorrow," he says.
"Tomorrow."
I drive away from Ashford House with his face in my mirror until I turn the corner and cannot see it anymore.
Back at the studio, I am sorting through the day's delivery notes when my phone lights up with a text from an unknown number.
There is a photograph attached. Alexander standing outside what looks like a solicitor's office, shaking hands with a man in a grey suit. The angle suggests it was taken from across the street. From a distance. By someone who was watching.
The caption reads: Ask him who Fairfax Holdings is.
I stare at the screen for a long time.
Jess comes into the workroom with a stack of invoices. She sees my face and sets them down immediately.
"What now?"
I turn the phone toward her. She reads the caption. Looks at the photograph. Looks at me.
"Are you going to ask him?"
I put the phone face down on the worktable.
"Tomorrow," I say. "I'll ask him tomorrow."
But the photograph stays in my phone. And the name Fairfax Holdings stays in my head. And when I close my eyes that night, I see Alexander's face through the van window, the way he looked at me when he said I was wrong.
I think about what it means to trust someone who is still deciding how much to tell you.
I think about what it means to choose to wait.