I sit heavily on the edge of my bed, fighting a wave of disorientation. How much of my life has been manipulated from a distance? Which friends are genuine, which introduced into my circle strategically? Is Sandra truly the efficient assistant I believed, or another plant reporting my every move?
The questions spiral endlessly, threatening to paralyze me. I force them aside, focusing on practical considerations. Three days of relative freedom. Three days to assess my options, contact potential allies, perhaps find some leverage.
I finish packing, then systematically check my apartment for surveillance devices. I find three—a camera disguised as a smoke detector in my bedroom, another hidden in a decorative clock in the living room, and a listening device tucked behind an outletin the kitchen. I leave them in place. Knowledge is power, even when that power is severely constrained.
Victor waits patiently when I exit the building. We drive to Wildflower in silence, tension humming beneath the surface.
Sandra looks up in surprise when I enter, her face lighting with relief. "Poppy! Thank goodness. I was so worried when that man said you had a family emergency."
I force a smile, acutely aware of Victor's presence just outside the door. "It's complicated. I'm back for a few days to get things organized."
Her eyes flick to the window, where Victor stands with his back to us, seemingly casual but obviously on guard. "Is everything okay? You look... different."
"I'm fine," I lie. "Just some family business to handle. Let's go over the books and upcoming orders. I need to make sure everything's covered while I'm away."
We retreat to my office, where I close the door and turn on the small radio I keep on a shelf—background noise to mask our conversation from potential listening devices. Even so, I keep my voice low.
"Sandra, I need to know something, and I need complete honesty." I meet her eyes directly. "Who hired you?"
She blinks, confusion evident. "You did. Last year, remember? I responded to your ad on the university job board."
"And before that? Any connections to Blackwood Investments? Or any unusual instructions regarding reporting on my activities?"
Her confusion deepens. "Blackwood? I don't know what that is. Poppy, what's going on? Are you in some kind of trouble?"
Either she's an excellent actress or she's genuinely unaware of Gage's influence. I study her expression, looking for any sign of deception, and find only concern.
"I might be," I admit cautiously. "But I can't discuss it right now. Just... if anyone asks about me, about the shop, about anything unusual, tell me immediately. Okay?"
She nods, clearly worried but not pushing for explanations I can't safely give. "Of course. Whatever you need."
We spend the next several hours reviewing the order book, discussing upcoming client meetings, and ensuring Sandra can handle operations in my absence. I'm acutely aware of Victor's periodic checks through the front window, his watchful presence a constant reminder of my limited freedom.
By late afternoon, I've handled the most pressing business matters and am sorting through mail that accumulated during my absence. A thick cream envelope catches my attention—formal correspondence from my bank. Inside, I find a notification that one of my business accounts has been frozen pending review.
"Sandra, did anyone from the bank call while I was gone?"
She shakes her head. "Not that I'm aware of. Is something wrong?"
"Just a formality to clear up," I say, though dread pools in my stomach. The timing is too convenient to be coincidence.
I check the other accounts through my banking app, finding two more frozen, leaving only the small emergency fund I keep separately for immediate operating expenses. A message from my primary supplier appears moments later—they're "regretfully unable to fulfill" my standing order for next week due to "inventory constraints."
The systematic dismantling has begun.
I call the bank immediately, only to be transferred between departments before finally reaching someone who informs me that the account freeze requires "management review" that cannot be expedited. The supplier similarly offers apologies but no solutions when I call them.
By closing time, three more messages have arrived—my commercial landlord "needs to discuss lease terms," my delivery service has "scheduling conflicts" with our regular arrangement, and my website suddenly shows "technical difficulties" despite functioning perfectly days ago.
The message is clear: Gage is demonstrating his power, showing how easily he can dismantle the business I've built if I don't comply with his demands.
I send Sandra home with reassurances I don't feel, waiting until she's gone before properly searching the shop for surveillance devices. I find five, more advanced than those in my apartment—cameras with clear views of the front and back entrances, the main workspace, my office, and the storage area. The thoroughness of the surveillance is chilling.
Victor appears in the doorway as I'm finishing. "Ready to go, Miss Everett?"
I nod, gathering my purse and locking the shop with a sense of finality I can't shake. As we drive to my apartment, my phone buzzes with an email notification—another client canceling a major order with vague apologies.
That night, I sit at my kitchen table with a legal pad, listing every aspect of my business that's been affected in just one day: frozen accounts, canceled orders, supplier issues, technical problems, potential lease concerns. The pattern is clear and devastating. Without Gage's intervention, Wildflower will collapse within weeks, perhaps days.
