The Shadow Life

The bell above the shop door chimed, a thin, silver sound that cut through the afternoon’s quiet. You didn’t look up from the peonies you were trimming, the stems cool and damp between your fingers. The scent of crushed leaves and wet earth hung in the air, a perfume you knew better than your own name.

"Beautiful," a voice said, low and unhurried. "You have a gift for making something fragile look effortless."

You glanced up. He stood just inside the doorway, a tall man in a charcoal suit that cost more than a month of your wages, his dark hair silvered at the temples. He wasn’t looking at the flowers. He was looking at you.

"Can I help you, sir?" you asked, setting the shears down.

He smiled, and it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Fenwick Sterling. I’ve been watching your work for some time." He stepped closer, and the air in the shop seemed to tighten. "I’ve also been watching you. Your apartment on Meridian—the one with the cracked window you keep meaning to fix. Your friend Mina, who laughs too loudly when she’s nervous."

Your hand stilled on the counter.

"Don’t be alarmed," he said, soft as silk. "I arranged all of it. The job, the rent, the friendship. Everything you thought was yours—I gave it to you."