Page 33 of Hellebore

She nods, checking her notes again. “Why?”

I shake my head. “Never mind.”

A chill runs down my spine. That’s my favorite cake. The exact one my mother used to make for every birthday. It’s on the menu, so it’s not impossible… but still.

“And for decoration,” Cordelia continues, “the client wants white buttercream with two black flowers on top.”

“Okay,” I murmur, sketching a few roses. “Black roses?”

“No, it’s a weird name. I’ve never heard of it before.” She pauses. “Hellebore?”

My hand freezes. My breathing stops.

“Hellebore?” My voice comes out shaky.

“Y-yes,” she stutters, eyes widening. “Briar, are you okay? You look way too pale.”

I don’t answer. My heart is hammering against my ribs. Cordelia rushes to get me a glass of water. I drink it in one go, the cold liquid doing nothing to chase away the ice in my veins.

“Sorry… I think my blood pressure dropped. I’m going to get some air.”

I barely make it outside before I lean against the brick wall, breathing hard. What the hell is going on? Do I have a stalker now? Whoever it is knows my favorite cake and keeps leaving those black flowers at my door.

No… There’s no way⁠—

My phone vibrates in my jeans pocket. I pull it out with trembling fingers.

Unknown number.

“Don’t be scared, I’m not here to hurt you, my love. I want to taste what your fingers touched.”

I stare at the message, caught between panic and something dangerously warmer. My cheeks flush.

Okay, I am seriously mentally fucked up if this makes me blush.

I want to taste what your fingers touched.

Shit. Why does that sound almost… sweet? Hot, even?

Also creepy. Very, very creepy.

I shake my head hard as I walk back inside but then I freeze.

Wait… how did they know I was freaking out right now?

I glance around the kitchen, eyes darting over every corner, every shelf. Looking for anything out of place.

There’s no way they have cameras here… right?

No. Why would anyone care about me this much? And the man I’m actually hiding from would never write something like that.

I force myself to move.

I gather the eggs, flour, sugar, and dark chocolate with practiced hands. The familiar rhythm of the kitchen usually grounds me, but today every sound feels too loud, every shadow too sharp.

“Cordelia?” She appears again, still looking worried. “Is the client picking this up themselves?”

“Yes, Thursday.” She answers quickly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”