Esme had started to feel like she was encroaching on Liam's space, even thought he hadn't said so.
She had scoured dozens of listings. Narrow hallways, dim kitchens, one-bedroom flats with no light and less life. None of them fit. She needed space. She needed sunlight. A greenhouse. Somewhere to grow again. Somewhere her mother's memory wouldn't feel like a ghost pacing beside her.
And Everflora had to be nearby. She didn't have it in her to start over completely.
The laptop Liam lent her hummed quietly on the coffee table. It was old, chipped at the edges, the screen held together by a strip of tape near the hinge. She clicked through listings, eyes dulling. Her reflection in the screen was wan and tired.
This wasn't working.
She reached for her phone.
There was only one person she could call.
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Her name was Irene.
A name that didn't belong to any records, not really. No digital footprint, no LinkedIn, no high school reunions. Just whispers and results. Helena used to call her the Swan with Switchblades. Tall. Model-thin. A frame like a runway sketch and a face carved in cold elegance. She walked like her heels didn't touch the ground. Always in black—not mourning, not aesthetic. Just default.
They met at a cafe tucked on the corner of a quiet street, where the lattes came in matte cups and the pastries had names Esme couldn't pronounce. Irene was already seated when Esme arrived, legs crossed, dark glasses hiding eyes that always saw too much.
"Esme Levine," she said in a voice made of silk and smoke. "Still breathing. What a lovely surprise."
Esme sat opposite her, folding her hands in her lap. "Thank you for coming. I know it's been a while."
"Time bends for the right people. And dead women don't get second calls. Your mother had taste."
The waitress came. Irene ordered espresso, black. Esme asked for tea, throat suddenly dry.
"You need a place," Irene said simply, once they were alone again.
"Somewhere close to Everflora. With room for a greenhouse. And privacy."
"Mm. You mean insulation. Walls thick enough to bury sins in."
Esme didn't flinch.
Irene smiled slowly. "I might know a few places. But they come at a price. Not money."
"I expected that."
"Of course you did."
They sat in silence for a few breaths. Irene's eyes lingered on her over the rim of her cup. Then, from the far side of the cafe, a television flickered with breaking news.
A reporter in a slate-blue blazer stood in front of police tape.
"...Silas Dorne was found unresponsive in his home this morning. Sources say he collapsed after displaying signs of cardiac arrest. An autopsy is pending, though officials suspect foul play given his powerful business ties..."
Irene didn't look at the screen.
She laughed.
It was sharp. Musical. Almost beautiful. It sliced through the murmurs of the cafe like a string snapping.
Esme's heart stuttered.
Irene lifted her espresso, swirled it gently. "You always were a quick study."
Esme blinked. Her throat went dry. "What?"
Irene tilted her head, leaned in like they were trading recipes. Her voice was low, amused. "Don't insult me, darling. That kind of death? Sudden. Precise. Untraceable. It's not a bullet, and it's certainly not mercy. It's a message in floral paper."
Esme looked away.
The news anchor continued in the background. Silas's photo flashed on the screen—a man with nothing behind the eyes, now nothing at all.
"It wasn't about revenge, was it?" Irene mused. "Not entirely. It was about balance. Helena would be proud."
Esme stared at the steam rising from her tea. It trembled slightly, the surface rippling.
"How did you know?" she asked, finally.
Irene gave a delicate shrug. "A woman notices the weather change before it rains. You, my dear, changed the air."
There was no fear in her voice. No judgment. Just... respect. Maybe even affection.
It caught Esme off guard.
No one had ever recognized her work before. No one had ever known there was work to recognize.
She should have felt powerful.
Instead, she felt naked.
"This doesn't make me a monster," she said softly, almost to herself.
"Oh, Esme," Irene said, smiling like the Mona Lisa might. "It makes you an artist."
That was worse.
Her fingers tightened around the cup. She could still see her mother's torn scarf in her mind. Still hear Liam's voice asking her to stay safe. Still feel the hands that had tried to pin her down.
Dorne had deserved it.
Hadn't he?
"I'll find you three options," Irene said, her tone shifting into business. "One by the lake, two near the hills. All with space for secrets and sun. You'll choose what fits your grief best."
Esme lifted her gaze. "And the price?"
Irene stood, smoothing her coat. "You owe me a favor. A real one. One day, I'll call. No questions."
"You sound like my mother."
"I loved your mother. And I miss her every time someone opens their mouth and ruins a room."
Esme almost laughed.
Irene turned her head slightly. Her dark hair caught the light like obsidian. "You did well, flower girl. Just don't let the roots choke you."
And with that, she vanished into the street like she'd never been there.
Esme remained seated. The tea had gone cold. Her reflection in the cup looked sharper now. Less afraid. More awake.
She was being seen.
And there was no taking it back.