“I know.”
“Do you? Because the last time you cared about someone this much—”
“I know, Celeste.”
“Damien left Anya’s body on your bed like a gift. You didn’t speak for years after that, Julian. Years of nothing.”
“I remember.”
“And before her—Margaret in the asylum fire. Corinne in the river. You’ve lost everyone you’ve ever let yourself love.”
“I remember everything.”
She sighs. “Then I hope this one is worth it.”
I think about Poppy’s laugh. Her honesty. The way she makes me want to be more than what I am.
“She is,” I say. “She is.”
CHAPTER 7
POPPY
I’m in the middle of filming a skincare segment—sheet mask, ring light, the whole production—when my door buzzer rings. I ignore it. The light is perfect right now, and I’ve already done three takes.
BUZZ... again.
And again.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, pausing the recording. My face looks ridiculous in the viewfinder—half-visible through the mask, mascara slightly smudged from the previous take. Definitely not answering-the-door ready.
But whoever’s down there isn’t giving up.
I hit the intercom. “Yes?”
“Delivery for Poppy Gable.”
“Can you leave it?”
“Signature required, ma’am.”
I glance at my reflection. Lime green sheet mask. Messy bun. Sweatpants that say “SUNDAY” even though it’s Thursday.
“Give me one minute.”
I peel off the ridiculous-looking mask, wipe my face, and throw on a cardigan that at least covers the fact that I’m not wearing a bra. Good enough for a delivery guy.
The man at my door is wearing a uniform I don’t recognize—not UPS, not FedEx. Something more upscale. He’s holding a garment bag.
“Miss Gable?” He checks his tablet. “It’s from Mr. Blackthorne.”
My stomach does something complicated.
“Thank you.” I sign his tablet and take the bag. It’s heavier than I expected—quality fabric, probably. The kind that costs more than my monthly rent.
“Have a good evening, ma’am.”
I close the door and stare at the bag.
