“He’s been there for three hours, Celeste. Just… sitting in that black sedan across the street. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even check his phone.”

The floor-to-ceiling windows of the London studio were frosted with the biting chill of November, but the air inside smelled like a funeral. Or a wedding. It was hard to tell the difference lately. Celeste Harper didn’t look up from her script. Her fingers, stained with the ink of a dozen revisions, trembled slightly as she reached for a petal of the white lilies sitting on her desk.

Fresh. Again.

Every morning for the last thirty days, a bouquet arrived without a card. Just the...