"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 doorknobbefore 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.
