Page 2 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

She hangs up, making a note in our order system. "He said designer's choice for the new arrangement, but they'd like something with darker elements. Burgundies and deep purples."

"Interesting," I muse. Most corporate clients prefer neutral, inoffensive arrangements—whites, greens, maybe a touch of blue. "What's the delivery address again?"

Sandra checks her screen. "Morgan Enterprises, 1200 Harbor Tower, attention: Executive Floor."

I nod, filing the information away. Harbor Tower houses some of the city's most prestigious firms—old money, serious power. The kind of businesses my father has always aspired to do business with.

"I'll take care of it personally," I decide. "I've been wanting to experiment with those black calla lilies anyway."

The rest of the afternoon passes in a flurry of activity.

A mother and daughter come in to discuss flowers for a sweet sixteen party.

A local restaurant owner stops by to adjust his standing order.

I finish the Harrington centerpieces and supervise their loading for delivery, while Sandra processes new inventory and updates our social media accounts.

At five-thirty, with the day's deliveries completed and the prep work set for tomorrow, I begin closing the store. The routine is second nature now—tallying the register, updating the order book, setting aside spent flowers for the compost bin that a local urban farm collects weekly.

"You still meeting your friends tonight?" Sandra asks, shrugging into her jacket.

"Yeah, eight o'clock at The Hollow." I smile. "Five years of Wildflower deserves at least one celebratory cocktail."

"More than one, I'd say." Sandra pauses at the door. "Hey, I meant to ask—did you order new business cards? I found a box on my desk this morning."

I frown. "No, we still have plenty from the last order."

"That's what I thought. These are different though—new design, heavier paper." She pulls a card from her bag. "Really nice, actually."

I take the card, immediately noticing the difference.

The stock is premium, the printing embossed with a subtle texture.

The design is elegant—a simplified line drawing of wildflowers with the shop name and contact information beneath.

It looks expensive, the kind of stationery I might have aspired to but couldn't currently justify.

"I didn't order these," I say slowly. "Where did you say you found them?"

"On my desk this morning. I assumed they were a surprise for the anniversary."

An uneasy feeling creeps along my spine. "Was anything else out of place? Any sign someone had been in the shop?"

Sandra thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. "Everything seemed normal. The alarm was set when I arrived."

I turn the card over. On the back, in small, elegant type, is a message I hadn't noticed at first:

Congratulations on five years of remarkable growth.

No signature. Nothing to indicate who left them, or how they got into a locked shop.

"Maybe it was one of the delivery guys?" Sandra suggests. "Or that new cleaning service?"

"Maybe," I agree, though I don't believe it. The cleaning crew has a key, but they only come on Sundays when the shop is closed. Delivery drivers never go beyond the back workroom.

"Should I use them?" Sandra asks. "They're much nicer than our current ones."

I hesitate. I want to say no, to throw them away on principle. But they are beautiful, exactly the kind of elevated branding I've been wanting for Wildflower.

"Let's hold off for now," I decide. "I want to figure out where they came from first."

When Sandra has gone, I lock the front door and move through the shop, checking windows and reviewing the day's security footage on the small monitor behind the counter. Nothing unusual appears—just the normal rhythm of customers and deliveries.

I slip the mysterious business card into my wallet, telling myself I'll investigate tomorrow. Tonight is for celebration, not paranoia.

My apartment is ten blocks from the shop, a third-floor walk-up in a converted warehouse building.

Smaller than I'd like, with temperamental plumbing and noisy neighbors, but the rent is reasonable and the location ideal.

The space is entirely mine, decorated with vintage finds and plants that thrive under my care.

I shower quickly, letting hot water sluice away the day's tensions. I change into black jeans and a silky green top that brings out the emerald in my eyes, apply minimal makeup, and twist my copper hair into a messy updo that looks deliberate rather than harried.

My phone buzzes again as I'm sliding into my boots.

Poppy, please call me. It's important. - Dad

I delete it without replying. I walked away from that world, from the expectations, from the suffocating control.

The Hollow is crowded when I arrive, Friday night energy in full swing.

I spot my friends at a high-top near the bar—Mia, my former roommate and now a sous chef at a restaurant downtown; Dylan, a graphic designer who created Wildflower's logo and website; and Tara, who teaches art at a local high school.

"There she is!" Mia calls out, raising a glass. "The flower queen herself!"

I grin, squeezing through the crowd to join them. A bottle of champagne waits in an ice bucket, and Dylan pours me a glass as soon as I sit down.

"To Wildflower," he proposes, lifting his glass. "Five years of making the world more beautiful, one petal at a time."

"To Poppy," Tara adds.

We clink glasses, and I feel a wave of gratitude wash over me. These people—who have supported me through the lean times, who have celebrated every small victory—are my real family.

"I can't believe it's been five years," I say, taking a sip of champagne. The bubbles tickle my nose, bright and effervescent. "Sometimes it feels like I just opened yesterday, and sometimes it feels like I've been doing this my whole life."

"Remember when you were sleeping on that nasty futon in the back office?" Mia laughs. "And eating nothing but ramen and Red Bull?"

"God, yes." I grimace at the memory. "And that winter when the heat kept going out, and I had to keep the flowers alive with space heaters."

"While wearing three pairs of socks and that hideous parka," Dylan adds.

"Hey, that parka saved my life!"

We reminisce about the early days, about my first big wedding commission, about the time a famous singer had wandered into the shop and ordered twenty arrangements for a surprise party.

"Seriously though," Tara says, when we've ordered a second round of drinks and a plate of appetizers. "What you've built is amazing, Poppy. Not just the business, but the life. You should be proud."

I feel a warmth that isn't just from the champagne. "I am. It hasn't always been easy, but it's been worth it."

I don't elaborate on what "it" is—leaving my family, walking away from wealth and connections, building something from nothing.

They know my story, or at least the broad strokes of it.

Privileged girl from a controlling family who walked away from it all to start over.

I've never shared all the details, never fully explained what drove me to make such a clean break.

"So what's next?" Dylan asks. "World domination? Wildflower franchises in every major city?"

I laugh. "Hardly. I'm thinking about expanding the workshop space, maybe bringing on another designer. The wedding business is picking up, and I can't keep doing it all myself."

"Smart," Mia nods. "But don't grow too fast. Remember what happened to that bakery on Seventh? Expanded to three locations and went bankrupt in six months."

"Trust me, I'm being careful." I take another sip of my drink. "I like being a small, specialized business. Quality over quantity."

The conversation shifts to other topics—Mia's new boyfriend, a gallery showing Tara is preparing for, Dylan's frustrations with a difficult client. I relax into the moment, letting the stress of the day fade away.

It isn't until I excuse myself to use the restroom that I notice the man at the bar.

Tall, expensively dressed, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

When our eyes meet, he doesn't look away, doesn't pretend he hasn't been staring.

Instead, he raises his glass slightly, a gesture that isn't quite a toast but definitely an acknowledgment.

I look away quickly, threading through the crowd to the back of the bar. When I emerge from the restroom a few minutes later, the man is gone.

Back at the table, I try to rejoin the conversation, but find my attention drifting. I scan the room several times, looking for the stranger, but don't see him again.

"You okay?" Tara asks, touching my arm. "You seem distracted."

"I'm fine," I assure her. "Just tired, I think. It's been a long week."

But as the night progresses, I can't shake the feeling of being watched. A prickling awareness at the back of my neck, a heightened sensitivity to movements in my peripheral vision.

By eleven, the second bottle of champagne is empty, and I make my excuses. Despite my friends' protests, I insist on walking home alone—it's a straight shot through well-lit streets, and I've done it countless times before.

The night air is crisp, clearing the slight fog of alcohol from my mind. I walk briskly, heels clicking on the pavement, keys clutched in my fist in the way my self-defense instructor taught me years ago.

Halfway home, I hear a car slow beside me. A black SUV with tinted windows, crawling along at walking pace. I quicken my steps, heart hammering. The SUV maintains its pace, staying alongside me for half a block before accelerating away.

I watch it disappear around a corner, trying to calm my racing pulse. Just a coincidence, I tell myself. Probably someone looking for an address, or a rideshare driver confused about a pickup location.

But as I climb the stairs to my apartment, I can't shake the sense of unease.

My phone buzzes again as I'm unlocking my door. Unknown number.

Happy anniversary, Penelope.

No one calls me Penelope anymore. No one except my father.

I delete the message and enter my apartment, double-checking the locks behind me. The space feels different somehow—not obviously disturbed, but not quite right either. As if someone has moved through it recently, adjusting things by millimeters.

I check the windows, the closets, even under the bed, finding nothing out of place. Still, I prop a chair under my doorknob before climbing into bed, a precaution I haven't taken since my first nights in this apartment.

As I lie in the darkness, my mind returns to the invitation in my desk drawer. To Violet's engagement. To my father's persistent calls. To the mysterious business cards and the text message from an unknown number.

The freedom I've built is worth more than anything the Everett family fortune could offer. I remind myself of that as many times as necessary. I've fought too hard, come too far, to allow doubt or fear to undermine what I've created.

Tomorrow, I will change the locks on the shop. Install a new security system in my apartment. Take precautions while maintaining my independence.

I turn on my side, pulling the covers up to my chin. As sleep finally claims me, I don't notice the blinking light on the smoke detector above my bed.