Page 26 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
"Gaps. Holes in the timeline that don't make sense." He sets the folder on my desk, closed now. "Linda Marsh existed until Poppy was two. Then she became Linda Rivers and startedrunning. But the two years before that—before the name change—there's almost nothing. A few utility bills. A lease on an apartment in a town I've never heard of. And then nothing until Poppy's birth certificate."
"So she kept a low profile. Some people do."
"Some people do. But most people leave more traces than this. It's like she appeared out of nowhere, had a baby, and then spent the rest of her life trying to disappear again."
I consider this. Josiah is right that it's unusual—most people, even those trying to hide, leave more of a paper trail. Credit cards, medical records, employment history. The absence of these things suggests either extreme poverty or deliberate erasure.
Or someone helping her disappear.
"What are you suggesting?" I ask.
"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm presenting facts." Josiah stands, straightening his jacket. "This woman—Poppy Rivers—comes from a family with secrets. Her mother has been running from something for twenty-five years, and whatever that something is, it scared her badly enough to change her entire identity. Now her daughter has stumbled into your life, witnessed something she shouldn't have, and you're—" He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "You're more invested in her than I've ever seen you invested in anything."
"And you think that's a problem."
"I think it's a risk. And I think you should consider the possibility that this woman isn't as random as she appears."
The suggestion irritates me more than it should. "You think she's—what? A plant? Someone sent to infiltrate the family?"
"I think coincidences are rarely coincidental. And I think you're too distracted to see clearly right now."
I stand, placing my palms flat on the desk. "I see more clearly than I have in years. This woman is not a threat. She's not a plant. She's a florist who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now she belongs to me. That's all there is to it."
Josiah holds my gaze for a long moment. Something flickers in his eyes—concern, frustration, maybe even fear. Then he nods slowly.
"I hope you're right," he says. "For all our sakes."
He turns and walks to the door. Pauses with his hand on the knob.
"One more thing. Benedict knows about your interest in her."
I keep my expression neutral. "And?"
"And he finds it amusing. He's been making comments at dinner, asking questions about the 'pretty florist who caught your eye.'" Josiah's voice tightens. "He also thinks you're losing your edge. That you're letting sentiment compromise your judgment."
"Benedict thinks many things. Most of them are designed to provoke a reaction."
"True. But he's not wrong that the Brotherhood is watching. You've been distracted, absent from meetings, delegating responsibilities you've never delegated before. People are starting to notice." Josiah opens the door. "Whatever game you're playing with this woman, finish it soon. Before it finishes you."
He leaves without waiting for a response.
I stand alone in my study, the folder on my desk, the sketch hidden beneath it.
Josiah's concerns are valid. He's right that I've been distracted, that my attention has been consumed by Poppy Rivers to a degree that would have seemed impossible two weeks ago. He's right that the Brotherhood expects focus, dedication, results—and that anything less could be perceived as weakness.
But he's wrong about her being a threat. Wrong about her being a coincidence that needs examination.
She's not a puzzle to be solved. She's not a risk to be managed.
She'smine.
The word settles into my chest with the weight of absolute certainty. I've known it since the moment she appeared in that doorway, her eyes wide with terror and something else. Something that recognized me even as it feared me.
Whatever secrets her mother is hiding, whatever past Linda Rivers ran from—it doesn't matter. None of it changes what I saw in Poppy's eyes. None of it changes what she drew in her sketchbook, what she felt when she sensed me watching, what she's feeling right now as she sits in her dark apartment with my voice still echoing in her ear.
She belongs to me. She just doesn't know it yet.
I reach for my phone and dial.
