Page 3 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

I notice it on Monday morning—a black SUV parked across the street from Wildflower. The same vehicle I'd glimpsed following me on Friday night. Its windows are tinted dark, making it impossible to see who sits behind the wheel, but the sensation of being watched crawls across my skin like insects.

When Sandra arrives at eight-thirty, I'm already on my third cup of coffee, arranging white lilies for the Robinson wedding consultation.

"You're here early," she says, hanging her jacket on the coat rack. "Everything okay?"

I force a smile. "Just getting a head start. The Harrington wedding is this weekend, and we still have the Robinson consultation and three corporate deliveries today."

Sandra glances at the dark circles under my eyes but doesn't comment. Instead, she boots up the shop computer and begins sorting through emails.

"The Morgan account sent a thank-you note," she says. "Apparently, the arrangements we delivered last week were 'exactly what they were looking for.' They've requested another special delivery for tomorrow—they specified dark elements again, with a preference for black dahlias if we have them."

"We do," I confirm, my mind only half on the conversation. I keep glancing out the window at the SUV. It hasn't moved in the forty minutes I've been watching. "Who is this Morgan client, anyway? Have we ever met them in person?"

Sandra shakes her head. "All communications have been through their assistant. A Mr. Victor."

The name tickles something in my memory, but I can't place it. "Look up their company information, would you? I'm curious about what they do."

While Sandra taps at the keyboard, I return to the lilies, but my focus is shattered. The weekend had been unsettling in ways I couldn't quite articulate. I'd changed the locks on the shop as planned, installed a new security system in my apartment, and spent most of Saturday jumping at shadows.

And then there had been the dream—vivid and disturbing. My father's voice, cold and precise: "You've always been willful, Penelope. But never forget who you belong to." I'd woken in a cold sweat, sheets twisted around my legs like restraints.

"That's odd," Sandra says, frowning at her screen. "There's almost nothing online about Morgan Enterprises. Just a business registration with the state, listing an address at Harbor Tower. No website, no social media presence."

"What's the registration date?"

Sandra clicks a few more times. "It was formed... five years ago."

I freeze, a lily stem halfway into the arrangement. Five years. The exact length of time since I'd opened Wildflower.

"Who's listed as the principal?"

Sandra squints at the screen. "A holding company called Blackwood Investments."

The name means nothing to me, but the coincidence of the timing sets off warning bells. I'm about to ask her to dig deeper when the shop door chimes.

A delivery man enters, carrying a red envelope.

"Delivery for Penelope Arabella Everett," he announces, looking around expectantly.

My birth name, not the one I use professionally, not the name on my shop license. I step forward.

"That's me," I say, keeping my voice level despite the unease rippling through me.

The man hands me the envelope. "Signature required." He extends a digital pad.

I sign, watching as he nods and exits without another word. The envelope is thick, expensive stock, the color of fresh blood. No return address, no postage—hand-delivered.

"Secret admirer?" Sandra asks, eyebrows raised.

"Doubtful," I mutter, sliding my finger under the flap.

Inside is a single card, black with silver lettering:

Congratulations on five successful years of independence, Penelope. Time to come home now.

No signature. Nothing else in the envelope.

I stare at the message, the card trembling slightly in my hands.

"Poppy? You've gone white." Sandra moves closer, concern evident in her voice. "What is it?"

I tuck the card back into its envelope. "Nothing. Just... family stuff."

I don't elaborate, and Sandra doesn't push. It's one of the things I appreciate most about her—she respects boundaries without taking offense.

The morning passes in a blur of arrangements and consultations. By noon, the black SUV has disappeared, but my unease lingers. During a break, I call the security company that monitors the shop and request a review of the weekend footage. They promise to send it over by end of day.

At two, I deliver the arrangements to Morgan Enterprises personally, determined to get a glimpse of this mysterious client.

Harbor Tower is intimidating—sixty floors of gleaming glass and steel, security guards checking IDs at every entrance, elevators that require key cards for access to the upper floors.

"Delivery for Morgan Enterprises," I tell the guard at the desk. "Executive floor."

The guard studies me for a moment, then picks up a phone. "Flower delivery for Morgan Enterprises," he says, then waits, listening. "Yes, sir. Right away."

He hangs up and gestures to a side elevator. "They'll meet you on fifty-eight."

The executive elevator is lined with mirrors, offering me endless reflections of my own tension. The arrangements in my arms look almost funereal—black dahlias and calla lilies set against deep purple anemones and trailing vines. Beautiful, but with an unmistakable darkness.

When the doors open on fifty-eight, a man waits. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a military bearing despite his tailored suit.

"Miss Everett," he says, the name an unmistakable choice rather than a mistake that makes me swallow hard. "Thank you for delivering these personally. I'm Victor, Mr. Blackwood's head of security."

Blackwood. Not Morgan. My pulse skips.

"I was under the impression the account was for Morgan Enterprises," I say, keeping my voice even.

Victor doesn’t miss a beat. "Morgan Enterprises is a subsidiary. Mr. Blackwood prefers to handle some acquisitions discreetly. He asked me to extend his personal thanks for your exceptional work."

He lifts the arrangements from my arms with smooth efficiency, like this is any ordinary business exchange.

“These will be placed in the conference room for this afternoon’s meeting.”

A pin on his lapel catches the light—a stylized black bird of prey. I follow his movement and notice the same emblem etched discreetly into the wall behind him, just below the words *Morgan Enterprises* in brushed steel.

Of course. A shell. A mask. One I’ve been decorating with dahlias and calla lilies.

"Then please thank Mr. Blackwood for his continued patronage," I say, injecting polite detachment into my voice. "We appreciate loyal clients."

Victor nods, already turning toward a sleek hallway that likely leads to the private offices. "There is a car waiting to take you back to your shop."

I manage a tight smile. "That's not necessary. I'll walk." The thought of getting into a car chosen by these people makes my skin crawl.

"As you wish." Victor presses the elevator button. "Have a pleasant afternoon, Miss Everett."

The doors close, and I lean against the wall, heart hammering. Not a coincidence. None of this is coincidence.

When I return to Wildflower, the black SUV is back, parked in exactly the same spot. A message, clearly meant to be seen.

Sandra looks up from the counter. "Everything okay with the delivery?"

"Fine," I lie. "Just the usual corporate client."

I retreat to my office, closing the door behind me. My hand shakes slightly as I pull out my phone. I need answers, and I can only think of one person who might have them.

I call my sister.

Violet answers on the third ring. "Poppy? Is something wrong?" She sounds genuinely surprised.

"I got your invitation," I say, skipping pleasantries. "Congratulations."

A hesitation. "Thank you. I wasn't sure you'd call."

"I need to ask you something, Vi. It's important." I take a deep breath. "Do you know anyone named Blackwood? Or any company called Blackwood Investments?"

The silence stretches so long I think she's hung up. Then, her voice comes through, lowered to a whisper: "Where did you hear that name?"

A chill runs through me. "So you do know it."

"Poppy, listen to me." Violet's voice is urgent now, frightened. "Stay away from anything to do with that name. Don't ask questions about it. Especially not to Dad."

"Why? Who are they?"

Another pause. "I can't talk about this on the phone. But please, promise me you'll be careful. And..." She hesitates again. "Maybe you should come to the engagement party after all. We need to talk in person."

Before I can respond, she hangs up.

I stare at my phone, unease crystallizing into fear. Whatever is happening, my sister knows something—and it frightens her enough that she won't speak freely.

I spend the remainder of the afternoon in a haze of worry, absently completing arrangements while my mind races. By closing time, I've made a decision. I'll attend Violet's engagement party. Face my family. Demand answers.

The black SUV remains across the street as I lock up, Sandra having left an hour earlier. I stare directly at its tinted windows before turning and walking deliberately toward home. Let them follow. Let them watch. I'm done running scared.

My apartment feels foreign when I arrive, as if the space has been altered in subtle ways while I was gone. Nothing obvious—just the creeping sense that someone has been here, touched my things, examined my life.

I check the new security system. No alerts, no signs of forced entry. Yet the feeling persists.

I shower quickly, then throw together a simple dinner.

As I eat, I pull out my laptop and search for "Blackwood Investments.

" The results are sparse—a privately held company with diverse holdings, primarily real estate and technology firms. The CEO and founder is listed as Gage Blackwood, but there are no photos, no interviews, nothing to indicate who this person actually is.

I search deeper, trying variations of the name, but find little more. It's as if someone has deliberately scrubbed the internet of meaningful information.

Finally, I try "Gage Blackwood + William Everett"—my father's name.

A single result appears: a society photograph from twelve years ago. My father, younger but just as stern, shaking hands with a tall man whose face is turned away from the camera. The caption reads: "William Everett (left) concludes negotiations with Blackwood Industries representative."

I stare at the image, trying to make out the other man's features, but the angle makes it impossible. All I can see is dark hair, broad shoulders, and an expensive suit.

My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number:

The invitation still stands. Your sister would appreciate your presence.

I stare at the message, fear mingling with anger. I block the number, then shut down my laptop. Enough research for one night.

Sleep evades me. I toss and turn, fragments of memories surfacing like debris after a storm—my father's coded conversations, whispered arguments between my parents, the way certain names would silence a room when mentioned at family gatherings.

Around two a.m., I give up on sleep entirely. I move to the window, peeking through the blinds to the street below.

The black SUV is there, engine off, a silent sentinel.

Enough.

I grab my phone and take several photographs of the vehicle, including a clear shot of the license plate. Then I send these images to my sister, my closest friends, and my lawyer, with a simple message:

If anything happens to me, this vehicle and whoever's inside it are responsible.

It's a small gesture of defiance, but it gives me enough peace of mind to finally fall into a restless sleep.

The next morning, I arrive at Wildflower to find another red envelope tucked into the mail slot. Same heavy stock, same absence of postage or return address. I open it with steady hands, refusing to show fear even with no one watching.

Inside, a black card identical to yesterday's:

The past always catches up, Penelope. You can return willingly, or we can collect you. Your choice.

The threat is no longer veiled. I tuck the card into my pocket just as Sandra arrives, forcing a smile as she greets me.

Throughout the day, I find myself watching the door, jumping at every customer entrance. The black SUV remains parked across the street, a constant reminder of unseen eyes.

By evening, determination has replaced fear. I will attend Violet's engagement party, confront my father and I will reclaim control of my life.

As I lock up, my phone buzzes with a text from my sister:

Be careful coming to the party. Some guests are dangerous.

I stare at the message, then at the black SUV still watching from across the street. Whoever is inside raises a hand in a mocking wave.

I raise my middle finger in response, then turn and walk away, spine straight, head high. Let them come. I've built my life once from nothing; I can do it again if necessary.

But I won't go quietly. A game has begun. I just wish someone would tell me the rules.