Page 1 of Securing Her Innocence
1
ANNIKA
The scent of peonies and eucalyptus usually calms my nerves, but tonight, the silence of the floral shop feels heavy.
For the last few hours, a cold, prickly sensation has been crawling up my spine. It’s a persistent, nagging intuition that something isn’t right, like a storm brewing just over the horizon. I’ve tried to shake it off, blaming the shadows cast by the streetlights or the creaks of this old building, but my gut refuses to settle.
Maybe I’m just exhausted. Quitting my steady, soul-crushing corporate job to open this shop was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I scrounged every penny and worked overtime for years, determined to build something that was entirely mine. My blood, sweat, tears, and sleep schedule have been sacrificed to make this shop a success.
I named my little haven "The Petal & Stem," and it truly is my sanctuary. The interior is a cheerful chaos of bright pots, mismatched antique furniture, and floor-to-ceiling shelves overflowing with every bloom imaginable.
My customers are mostly the sweet neighborhood regulars; the busy dad grabbing a last-minute apology bouquet, theelderly woman who buys a single rose every week, and the young couples planning their first big life events.
I sigh wistfully, thinking about a couple who got married last year. They had me do their flowers, and now they are having a fancy baby shower to welcome a new little life. I’m so happy for them. Truly. But I can’t stop the slight twinge of loneliness at the thought of never having those memories for myself.
Clearing my head of those thoughts, I focus back on the positive, like how much I love my job now that I work for myself.
Every day is a whirlwind of color, and even on the toughest days, simply arranging a bouquet of my favorite wildflowers reminds me that I'm living my dream. I wouldn't trade the exhaustion for the world. I love my shop more than I ever thought possible.
I spent countless nights researching business licenses and local wholesalers, and even more weekends elbow-deep in paint and sandpaper, tackling DIY projects to transform this old space on a shoestring budget. It was only a few months ago that I finally stopped seeing red in my ledgers and started turning a modest profit, a victory that felt more precious than the flowers I sold.
Still, my parents’ voices echo in my head.Am I really cut out for this?I wonder, my eyes drifting to the "Open" sign I worked so hard to hang. My parents certainly didn’t think so. The last time we talked over the phone, they gave me the oh so helpful suggestion to just find a nice man to take care of me.
Apparently, I’m being too complicated and difficult for any man to handle. I wish I would have had the courage to tell them that if a man is threatened by a business-owning woman, then I don’t want him around anyway.
To my parents, my dreams were just a phase, something to be discarded in favor of a quiet, domestic life. But I wanted more. Ineededthis shop. Yet tonight, the price of my independence feels unusually high.
I decide to call my old work friend, Acacia, to try and distract myself from this sudden and unwelcome bout of paranoia. She recently packed up her life in the big city and moved to a tiny mountain town just a few hours away from my floral shop here in Colorado, and I’ve been meaning to get the latest details of her whirlwind adventure.
Acacia tells me about her hunky mountain man savior and opening her own bakery, which was her life-long dream. We bonded over starting our own businesses one day, even though at the time, we were stuck in our drab, gray cubicles, fetching coffee for people who didn’t even know our names.
"Oh my God, Cace," I gush. "That sounds like a literal fairy tale. I’m so happy for you. You deserve every bit of?—"
A loud bang echoes through the alleyway behind my shop. It sounds like a car backfiring, but the secondary thud that follows makes the hair on my arms stand up.
"Annika? You still there?" Acacia asks, her tone wary and uncertain.
Anothercrackrips through the otherwise eerily silent evening, this one louder and much more terrifying. It’s sharp and metallic, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.
"Annika! What was that?"
"I... I’m okay," I manage to squeak out. My voice is a terrified whisper, shaky and thin. "I think... I think it came from the alley behind the shop."
"Call the police, Annika. Right now. Get under a table and call 911,” my friend insists.
"I don't know if I should," I stammer, my breathing coming in jagged bursts. "I think I saw... oh crap. Acacia, I have to go."
"Annika, wait?—"
I hang up before she says anything else. My hands are trembling so badly I can’t grip my phone anymore. It clatters onto the counter, and I wince, not wanting the sound to draw attention to my whereabouts.
After a beat of silence and a few deep breaths, I debate what to do next. If someone needs medical attention, it’s my duty as a responsible citizen to call for help. Plus, having someone bleed out next to my floral shop wouldn’t exactly be good for business.
Curiosity, that trait my mother always warned would get me into trouble, wins out, pulling me toward the back door. I crack it open just an inch, peering into the dim light of the alley.
The world stops. Three men in dark suits stand over a slumped figure. One of them holds a pistol, the barrel still smoking. I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth, but the sound is enough.
Three heads snap in my direction. I don't wait to see if they recognize me. I slam the door, bolt the lock, and sprint back into the main shop, my heart drumming a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My lungs feel like they're shrinking, the air coming in shallow, staccato gulps.
