Chapter 3 - Wolves in the Parlor
Ruth Kaplan looked between the brass shears and my wedding dress before taking a slow step toward the door.
"June, darling," Ruth whispered, her voice shaking with genuine concern. "Do you want me to call the precinct? My nephew is a sergeant in the Fourth District."
"No, Mrs. Kaplan," I said, offering her a tight, reassuring smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Go home. Have your tea. Take those carnations from the front bucket on your way out. Graham Vale isn't worth bothering your nephew over."
She hesitated, patted my arm with a frail, warm hand, and slipped out into the gray dusk, the brass bell jingling softly behind her.
The door swung shut, leaving me alone with Thomas Vance in the quiet, dim shop. The scent of damp earth and blooming lilies hung thick between us.
"You're remarkably calm for a woman who was abandoned at the altar ninety minutes ago," Thomas noted, his gaze tracking the way I systematically untied the lace cuffs of my wedding gown to roll up the silk sleeves.
"I’ve spent the last three years keeping this flower shop afloat after my mother died of pancreatic cancer while juggling predatory lenders and supply chain hikes," I replied, tearing a piece of floral wire with my bare hands. "Graham being a cowardly thief doesn't break me. It just infuriates me."
"Good," Thomas said, a hint of respect flickering across his impassive face. "Spite is a far better survival strategy than grief."
Before I could reply, headlights swept across the shop’s display windows. A sleek, midnight-blue town car pulled up to the curb, parking directly in the red zone. The engine purred like a resting beast.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but Thomas moved before I could react. He reached out, his hand firm and surprisingly warm against my bare shoulder, pulling me back into the alcove where the tall hydrangeas were misting.
"Stay out of direct sight," he murmured, his breath brushing my temple. "That’s not Graham."
The shop door flew open with such force that the brass bell shrieked against the frame.
In walked Evelyn Vale.
My almost mother-in-law was wrapped in a pearl-colored cashmere cape, diamonds dripping from her ears, her silver-blonde hair coiffed to razor perfection. Her face was flushed, her thin lips drawn into a vicious, tight line. Behind her stood two men in identical dark raincoats, their hands tucked suspiciously deep inside their pockets.
"June!" Evelyn's voice cut through the fragrance of the flowers like acid. "I know you're in here, you ridiculous girl. Come out this instant."
I stepped out from behind the hydrangeas, brushing a stray leaf from my bridal skirt. "Mrs. Vale. Did you enjoy the wedding cake? I believe there was plenty left over, considering your son vanished like smoke."
Evelyn didn't waste a second on remorse. She advanced toward the counter, her high heels clicking aggressively against the worn wooden floorboards.
"Cut the pathetic victim act," Evelyn snapped, tossing a leather designer clutch onto the counter right over the shears. "Graham made a tactical error, but you’re the one making a disaster of it. Where is the man in the charcoal suit?"
So she knew. She wasn't here to apologize for her son breaking my heart. She was here on clean-up duty.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied smoothly, keeping my posture regal. "I’ve been here, giving away flowers to the people who actually showed up for me today."
"Don't play dumb with me, June Bellamy," Evelyn hissed, leaning across the counter. Her perfume—expensive, suffocating tuberose—invaded my space. "You're a florist drowning in six figures of shop debt. My son offered you a life of luxury and social status in exchange for a simple signature on a parcel of commercial real estate. You took his ring, didn't you?"
"He offered me a lie," I said, stepping right up to her face. "And that parcel belonged to my mother. You and Graham aren't touching a single grain of dirt under this shop."
Evelyn laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "Your mother was a sentimental fool who died penniless, and you take after her. Graham needs that portfolio envelope. We know the investigator took it, and we know he tracked you here. Give it to me, or my associates will tear this pathetic greenhouse apart until we find it."
One of the men behind her took a step forward, his knuckles cracking with deliberate menace.
From the dark corner behind the walk-in refrigerator, Thomas Vance’s voice cut through the room like a gunshot.
May you like
"Step back, Evelyn," Thomas said calmly, stepping into the warm pool of the counter light. "Or the police won't be responding to a civil property dispute—they’ll be arresting you as an accessory to federal wire fraud."
***
