*Somewhere on the outskirts of the city*
The door closed with a soft click behind her. The scent hit immediately—night-blooming jasmine, crushed violets, the sharp sting of something acrid underneath.
Esme exhaled slowly.
In here, no one watched. No one judged. Only the flowers did.
She slipped off her gloves with practiced grace and moved through the narrow path between tall potted belladonna and monkshood. The moonlight filtered in through the greenhouse's glass ceiling, casting fractured shadows on her hands as she reached for her tools.
Her sanctuary was quiet tonight.
She liked it best that way.
Carefully, she uncapped a small vial and held it under a drooping foxglove. A single drop of dew fell from the bell-shaped petal into the glass. One drop. Enough to slow a man's heart if taken with wine. Two, and it wouldn't matter how strong he was.
She scribbled a note in the margin of her logbook: Dosage variance in cooler climate. Test again.
Esme didn't make mistakes.
She turned to the wall behind her desk. It was covered in photos. Newspaper clippings. Handwritten notes and scraps from forums buried so deep online, they needed encryption keys to even access.
All of them were men and women with power. Untouchables. The kind that got away with things like cruelty and blood.
Esme never killed the innocent. She wasn't some chaotic force with a grudge.
She was precise.
Justice, in bloom.
Her eyes scanned the top row. Two faces had red crosses over them. The most recent was still fresh in the news—"Business Tycoon Dies in Sleep After Charity Gala."
No one questioned it. Why would they?
Now, her gaze slid to the bottom corner. A new face. Younger. Slippery. Smiling for the cameras.
Damien Vale, tech mogul. Untouchable, for now.
There were rumors—whispers of coercion, NDAs, digital trails hidden behind layers of shell companies. Esme had found the first crack. A voice recording. Distorted. Scared. Real.
She sat, still in her silk evening dress, and began preparing the extract that would end him.
Not yet. Not tonight. First, she had to know everything—his routine, his weaknesses, his favorite drink.
But she'd already chosen him.
She didn't see the shadow moving outside the greenhouse window.
Didn't know someone else was out in the city, following a different thread—one that would eventually lead right to her.
The detective with too many questions and not enough answers.