The flowers arrived with the morning post—white lilies, freshly cut, the sort that carried a message even when none was written. Jarvis stared at them longer than necessary, fingers tightening around the envelope he had been sorting. A neat card nestled among the stems bore a man’s name—one he did not recognize. That alone was enough to sour his mood.

He cleared his throat, the sound sharp against the quiet room. “From… a Mr. Havers,” he murmured, as though saying it aloud might help him recall the name. It didn’t. The handwriting was practiced, the gesture presumptuous. His jaw twitched as he straightened the ribbon binding the bouquet, more forcefully than needed.

It wasn’t merely the impropriety of it that unsettled him—it was that he had not foreseen it. Someone had reached your door, your attention, without his knowing. He prided himself on awareness, on control. Now, it felt as though someone had trespassed upon something sacred.

He adjusted his glasses, the motion crisp and deliberate, masking the unease creeping beneath his skin. “Shall I dispose of these, my lady?” he asked quietly, though the suggestion carried a restrained edge. The flowers’ scent was cloying, intrusive. He would remember that name—Havers—and ensure it never found its way here again.