CHAPTER 1
My hands move with practiced precision, weaving stems of ranunculus between sprays of eucalyptus. My fingers, stained slightly green and smelling of earth, work quickly as I glance at the clock.
"Sandra, did the Calico Imports delivery arrive yet?" I call out, pinching a spray of baby's breath into place.
"Not yet," my assistant replies, appearing in the doorway with an iPad in hand. "They just texted. Running twenty minutes late, but they swear the imported anemones will be worth the wait."
I nod, tucking a loose strand of copper hair behind my ear. "They better be. The Harrington wedding won't wait."
I step back to assess the arrangement before me—an explosion of whites and creams with touches of dusty blue, destined for the head table at the most expensive wedding I've ever been commissioned to design. The Harrington account had come to me three months ago, a referral from another satisfied client. It represents everything I've worked toward these last five years: high-profile clients who seek out Wildflower not because of the Everett family name, but because of my reputation for artistic vision and meticulous attention to detail.
A flash of black metal catches my eye through the front window—a sleek sedan idling across the street, tinted windows like dark mirrors reflecting the afternoon sun.
"Sandra," I call, not taking my eyes off the vehicle. "That car outside—how long has it been there?"
She glances up from her tablet, peering through the glass. "Oh, that one? At least twenty minutes. Actually..." She frowns. "That's at least the third time I've seen it this week. Same spot, same time of day."
"Probably just someone waiting for pickup," I murmur, but unease prickles along my spine. The car is expensive—luxury expensive. Not the kind of vehicle that lingers in our neighborhood without purpose.
As if sensing my attention, the engine purrs to life. The sedan pulls away smoothly, disappearing around the corner before I can make out the license plate.
"Weird," Sandra says, already returning to her work.
But I continue staring at the window longer than necessary, that feeling of being watched lingering.
My phone buzzes for the fourth time this hour, the car forgotten. Sandra raises an eyebrow. "Your dad again?"
"Probably." I don't bother checking. "Just let it go to voicemail."
Five years of ignored calls haven't deterred William Everett. If anything, his persistence has only grown stronger since I left home. Left isn't quite right—escaped is more accurate.
"If it's urgent, he could always send a carrier pigeon," I mutter, selecting a perfect alabaster rose and inspecting it for blemishes. "Or, you know, respect my boundaries and stop calling."
Sandra's smile is sympathetic. At twenty-three, she's three years younger than me, fresh out of business school, andunfailingly efficient. She's been with Wildflower for nearly a year now, and I sometimes wonder what I'd do without her.
"The Wallace order is prepped for delivery at two," Sandra says, scrolling through her iPad. "The Anderson funeral pieces are ready to go out. Oh, and the Robinson consultation is at four, not three—she called to push it back."
"Perfect." I straighten, surveying my creation with a critical eye. The arrangement will also be the centerpiece for a charity gala hosted by one of the city's wealthiest families.
"It's beautiful," Sandra offers, setting a fresh cup of coffee beside my workstation.
"It needs something..." I reach for a single dark dahlia, nearly black in the center, and position it off-center. "There."
The contrast is subtle but striking—a single note of darkness amid all that pristine light. Just enough edge to make the arrangement interesting. My work often reflects my sensibilities that way; I can't abide bland perfection.
The shop door chimes, and Sandra slips away to greet the customer. I allow myself a moment of satisfaction. This space—my creation, my sanctuary—feels as far from the Everett family mansion as possible. The exposed brick walls, the reclaimed wood shelving, the scent of fresh flowers mingling with coffee from the shop next door. Nothing like the sterile perfection my mother demands, or the oppressive grandeur my father insists upon.
I found this location five years ago, just after my twenty-first birthday. The building had been in rough shape then, a former hardware store with outdated wiring and a leaking roof. But the rent had been within my budget, just barely, and the owner had been willing to let me make improvements in exchange for a five-year lease.
I'd poured everything into it—my savings, my inheritance from my grandmother, and countless hours of sweat equity.Tearing out drop ceilings to expose original beams, stripping decades of paint from brick walls, installing the vintage-inspired lighting that now casts a warm glow over my workspace.
Wildflower had opened with little fanfare. No write-ups in the local papers, no flashy grand opening. I wanted it that way, needed to build something on my own terms, without the Everett name opening doors or creating expectations. The first year had been lean—wedding consultations that didn't convert to bookings, retail sales that barely covered my supplies, nights spent sleeping on the futon in my office because I couldn't afford both rent for the shop and an apartment.
But I'd made it work. Built a clientele one arrangement at a time. Developed relationships with local restaurants and hotels. Positioned myself as an artisan rather than merely a florist, creating pieces that were sculptural and unexpected. Now, five years in, Wildflower is solvent, respected, and—most importantly—mine alone.
The delivery door buzzes, and I move quickly to answer it. The Calico Imports driver hands over three boxes, which I carry to my work table.
"Finally," I murmur, opening the first box to reveal rows of pristine white anemones, their centers inky black and perfect. I lift one to examine it, pleased with the quality.
