The lily lay there like a whisper of menace—fragile, flawless, and so utterly out of place that Gigi couldn’t move at first. She simply stood, her breath trapped in her chest, her pulse hammering in her ears as though the bloom itself carried a warning.
Her bedroom had always been her refuge. Bellamy Gallery could be invaded by patrons, critics, and unexpected deliveries; the city could overwhelm her with its noise and demands. But here, behind her locked door, she had safety. Or so she believed.
Now, that illusion crumbled.
Her first instinct was denial. Maybe Clara had dropped it here earlier. Maybe Isabella, in her whirlwind style, had been in and out while she wasn’t looking. Maybe even Sultana, forever pretending to be friendly while lurking at the edges, had left it in some sly at
