Elena woke to pale morning light slipping through the curtains. For a moment, she lay still, staring at the ceiling as the events of the night before came back to her—the billiards game, the wager, and Liam walking out of the room after telling her to pack for a week.

She'd stayed up talking to Lisa long after midnight. Telling her about the game had been easier than admitting how much the rest of it had unsettled her. She'd told her about the table, the wager, and how close she'd come to winning. She'd told her about the trip, too, though she'd left out the parts she wasn't ready to say out loud.

She hadn't told her about the deal behind it. That was another secret she would have to keep to herself.

Lisa had laughed when Elena described the near-miss. “So you almost took down the big bad wolf on his own table, and then you choked?” Her voice had been warm, teasing. “That's so you, Rossi. All that confidence, and then you remember you have a conscience.”

“I didn't choke. I just—” Elena paused, searching for a word that wasn't a lie. “I hesitated.”

“Same thing, babe. Hesitation is just choking in slow motion.” Lisa crunched on something—chips, probably. The woman could survive on processed carbs and spite. “So where's he taking you? Some private resort where he can have his way with you?”

“I don't know. He said to pack a swimsuit.”

The crunching stopped. “A swimsuit, Elena. A swimsuit.”

“I know what a swimsuit is, Lisa.”

“No, you don't.” Lisa sounded almost gleeful now. “You're going on a trip with a man who looks at you like you're the last glass of water in a desert, and you're still pretending the swimsuit is just for swimming?” Another crunch followed. “You're either the most innocent woman alive, or you're playing a game I didn't know you had in you.”

Elena had let that hang, not sure how to answer. She wasn't playing a game. She was surviving. There was a difference, though it got harder to see by the day.

Now, with the morning light pressing against her eyelids, she pushed herself up. The sheets pooled around her waist, and she looked down at herself — the thin tank top she'd slept in, the pale skin of her thighs against the dark fabric. Just one more day until she was on a trip with Liam Thorn, alone, with no idea what he had planned.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood. The floor was cool against her bare feet, the wood smooth from years of footsteps. She crossed to the window and pulled the curtain aside. The lake stretched out beyond the grounds, flat and silver under the overcast sky, the distant shape of the dock barely visible through the haze.

She turned from the window and crossed into the adjoining bathroom, her hand finding the light switch by habit. The overhead fixture flickered once before settling into a warm glow. She lingered in front of the mirror, pushing a hand through the tangle of her hair. The woman staring back at her looked tired. Restless. Not frightened exactly, but carrying the weight of too many unanswered questions.

Tomorrow she would leave with Liam.

The thought settled heavily in her chest. She had packed the night before, folding clothes into the small overnight bag Presley had sent up to her room. Swimsuit, jeans, T-shirts, a light sweater for the evenings, and a handful of other clothes.

And the swimsuit.

She still wasn't sure why that had bothered her so much. It was just another piece of clothing, yet every time she thought about it, she wondered what the week would demand of her.

With a quiet sigh, she reached over and turned on the shower.

The shower hissed to life, steam curling against the tile as she stepped under the spray. Hot water needled her shoulders, loosening the knot that had taken up residence between her shoulder blades. She stood there for a long moment, eyes closed, letting the heat do its work. The thought settled into her chest once more. A week alone with Liam Thorn. The idea stirred something complicated inside her—not quite fear, not quite anticipation.

She reached for the soap and worked it over her legs before drawing the razor up her calves in slow, practiced strokes. It was routine, something she'd done for years without thinking.

Today, though, her thoughts kept drifting back to the swimsuit folded inside her overnight bag. He'd told her to bring one, which meant there would be a pool. Maybe a hot tub. Somewhere she would have to stand in front of him with far less to hide behind than she was used to.

She finished her legs and set the razor on the ledge, her hand hovering. The soap had pooled on the porcelain, and her gaze dropped lower, past her stomach, to the dark hair between her thighs. She'd never thought much about it. It was just there, part of her, like her elbows or her eyebrows. But the razor was right there. The trip was tomorrow. The swimsuit she'd packed revealed more than she was used to. And some curious, reckless part of her—the part that seemed to have awakened since she'd crossed the threshold of Thorn Manor—wondered what it would feel like.

Her fingers closed around the razor. She swallowed. Then she knelt carefully in the shower, water streaming over her back, and began. Slowly at first, tentative strokes, afraid of the blade against such tender skin. She had to stretch, to angle her leg up against the tile, to pull the skin taut with her free hand like the internet tutorials always said.

The first few passes left tracks of bare pink skin, and she paused to rinse the blade, staring at the dark hairs swirling down the drain. Gone. She kept going, working by touch more than sight, her breath held as she navigated the delicate curves and folds. The razor traced paths she'd never paid attention to, and she felt each pass like a tiny revelation, skin emerging from beneath the hair like something newborn.

She rinsed one last time, then ran her hand over herself — slow, disbelieving. Smooth. Utterly, impossibly smooth. The skin felt different under her fingers, softer, more sensitive, like she was touching a part of herself she'd never really met before. She stood there for a long moment, water sluicing over her hips, her hand pressed between her thighs, feeling the strange new texture of her own body.

A small, private smile tugged at her mouth. She hadn't expected such a small decision to feel so personal. A secret she could carry under her clothes, a smoothness that no one else would know about unless she let them. She turned off the water and stepped out, steam billowing around her, her skin flushed and slick and utterly changed.

She wiped a clear circle through the fogged mirror and studied herself. Aside from her damp hair and flushed cheeks, nothing looked different. No one passing her in the hallway would have noticed the quiet decision she'd made in the shower. Somehow, that made it feel even more like her own.

She wrapped the towel more securely around herself and stepped back into the bedroom. The closet was full of clothes—blouses, skirts, and dresses—but she passed them over in favor of the things she actually felt comfortable wearing. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a loose green blouse that slipped off one shoulder. Simple. Comfortable. Hers.

She dressed slowly, the fabric cool against her still-damp skin, and ran a brush through her hair until it fell in soft waves past her shoulders. No makeup. No jewelry. Just Elena, the way she'd always been, even if the body beneath her clothes had changed in a small, secret way that no one could see but her.

She left the room and walked down the hallway, her footsteps soft against the hardwood. The manor was quiet—not the settled quiet of an empty house, but the expectant stillness of a place waiting for something to happen. She passed a maid in the hall, who gave her a polite nod before continuing on her way. That was it. No Presley. No Victor. No Liam.

Strange.

Elena made her way down the grand staircase, her hand trailing along the polished banister, then crossed into the great hall. The cavernous space felt emptier than usual, the high ceiling disappearing into shadow while pale morning light stretched across the marble floor. The chandelier hung dark and still, its crystals catching the sunlight in scattered glints.

She was halfway across the hall when she realized how quiet it really was. No footsteps. No voices. Only the distant ticking of the grandfather clock, marking the seconds as they passed.

She was about to turn toward the kitchen when three sharp knocks struck the front door. The sound echoed through the hall, stopping her in her tracks. Elena looked toward the staircase, then the east wing, and finally the corridor leading to the kitchen. No one appeared. No butler. No maid. No Liam.

Three more knocks came, louder and more insistent this time.

She hesitated before crossing the hall toward the door. It was a heavy thing of dark wood and wrought iron, the brass handle cold beneath her palm. She turned it and pulled.

The morning air hit her face, cool and damp, carrying the scent of wet stone and distant lake. And standing on the other side of the threshold, looking at her with a smile that was equal parts charm and calculation, was Sebastian Hart.

He looked good — tailored black suit, pocket square, that light brown hair perfectly tousled, brown eyes warm and appraising. His light facial hair caught the morning light, and he seemed to fill the doorway with an easy, unhurried presence that made Elena suddenly aware of her bare shoulders and her simple jeans and the fact that she'd just answered the door looking like she'd rolled out of bed and into yesterday's clothes.

"Elena." He said her name like it was the answer to a question he'd been carrying. "Good morning. Well, aren’t you such a pleasant greeting."

She blinked. "Sebastian." It came out too flat, too surprised, and she tried to recover. "I — what are you doing here?"

His smile widened, just a fraction. "That's one hell of a greeting for a man who's been thinking about you since the gala."

Her cheeks heated, and she told herself it was the cold air. "I mean —" She stopped, took a breath, tried again. "I didn't expect anyone. The house is, uh, quiet today."

“I noticed.” His gaze slipped past her into the empty hall before returning to her. “The house is unusually quiet this morning. And then I find you answering the door. Looks like my morning just got a bit better.”

The line was smooth, practiced, and she could feel it working—that easy charm that made you feel like the most interesting person in the room. Elena held up a hand. “Sebastian.”

"I know, I know." He held up both hands in mock surrender, but the smile didn't waver. "I'm not here to ambush you, I promise.” He let that hang for a beat, a reminder, a thread he was still holding. “Today, I'm afraid I'm here on business."

"Business?"

"I'm looking for Mr. Thorn." He said the name with a faint curl of distaste, as if it left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. "We have something to discuss. Unfinished business from the gala."

She studied him. The easy smile was still there, but there was something beneath it — a tension in his jaw, a watchfulness in his eyes that hadn't been there at the gala. He was here for a reason, and it wasn't just to flirt with her.

"Is he home?" Sebastian asked, his chocolate brown eyes holding hers with that easy warmth that made it hard to look away. "I need to speak with him."

Elena shook her head, the motion feeling inadequate. "I'm not sure. I haven't seen anyone this morning. The house has been quiet." She gestured vaguely behind her, at the empty hall. "I just woke up, honestly. I haven't seen Presley or Victor or — anyone, really."

Sebastian's brow furrowed, just a fraction, the first crack in that polished facade. "That's unusual."

"Why?" The word came out before she could stop it, sharper than she'd intended.

He looked at her for a long moment, his gaze searching, and something shifted in his expression. A calculation. A weighing. Then he tilted his head and said, almost softly, "You really don't know him, do you?"

The question landed like a stone in still water. Elena felt the ripples spread through her chest, cold and unsettling. She opened her mouth to answer, to deflect, to ask what he meant — but he was already looking away, his jaw tightening, a flicker of something like regret crossing his features.

He cleared his throat. "Never mind. I meant — it's unusual for the manor to be so unattended. Liam runs a tight ship. Always has." He smiled, but it was thinner now, a recovery rather than an offering. "I'm sure he's around somewhere. Probably brooding in a corner, as usual."

She didn't buy it. The deflection was too smooth, too quick. There was something behind that question, something he'd almost let slip, and she wanted to reach out and grab it before it disappeared. But before she could press, a voice came from behind her.

"Mr. Hart. My deepest apologies."

Elena turned. Presley stood at the entrance to the dining hall. She hadn't heard him approach. His tailcoat was immaculate, his peppered hair perfectly in place. He crossed the marble floor with measured steps, his expression professional and composed, as though appearing without warning were perfectly ordinary.

“I wasn't aware we were expecting company this morning. Had I known, I would have been at the door to greet you properly.”

Sebastian straightened, the easy charm sliding back into place like a well-worn coat. “Presley. No need to apologize. I'm the one intruding—I should have called ahead.” He offered a slight bow of his head, gracious and unhurried. “Security recognized me when I arrived. Mr. Thorn had already cleared my visit after our recent meeting.”

Presley’s expression remained polite, though Elena noticed the slight tightening around his eyes.

“I have some business to discuss with Mr. Thorn, if he's available,” Sebastian continued.

Presley's gaze flickered to Elena for the briefest moment — a question, an assessment — before returning to Sebastian. "Mr. Thorn is out back, sir. If you'll follow me, I'll take you to him."

Sebastian nodded, then turned back to Elena. His smile softened, lost some of its polish, and became something almost genuine. "It was good to see you again, Elena. Even if the circumstances are a little less — romantic — than I'd hoped for." He reached out, and his fingers brushed her hand, light and warm. "That dinner invitation still stands. Whenever you're ready to say yes."

She managed a small smile, her heart beating a strange rhythm against her ribs. "I'll keep it in mind."

His eyes held hers for a beat longer than necessary, then he turned and followed Presley through the dining hall, his footsteps echoing off the high ceilings.

The door swung shut behind them, and the silence rushed back in, thick and expectant.

Elena stood in the entrance hall, her hand still tingling where he'd touched it, her mind churning. You really don't know him, do you? The words looped through her head, a splinter she couldn't dislodge. What had he meant by that? What did Sebastian know about Liam that she didn't?

She looked at the closed door of the dining hall, then at the grand staircase leading to the upper floors. She should go back to her room. She should wait for Liam to come find her. She should stay out of it.

But the question burned in her chest, hot and insistent.

She crossed the hall before she could talk herself out of it, her footsteps soft on the marble. The dining hall doors were heavy, but they opened silently, and she slipped through into the cavernous room. The long table stretched before her, polished wood gleaming in the thin morning light, the chandelier above it dark and still. The far wall was all windows, looking out onto the back patio and the grounds beyond.

She crossed the room quickly, her heart hammering now, her palms beginning to sweat. She reached the back door — a simpler affair than the front, glass-paned with wrought iron — and pulled it open.

The morning air hit her again, cooler now, carrying the sharp scent of lake water and damp stone. She stepped out onto the back patio, a wide flagstone terrace with potted plants and wrought-iron furniture, and walked to the railing that ran along the edge of the cliff.

The view hit her like a physical blow.

The lake stretched out beneath her, vast and grey under the overcast sky, its surface rippled by a light wind. The cliff dropped away sharply, a hundred feet of rock and scrub, down to the family dock that jutted out into the water like a long wooden finger. And on that dock, she could see them.

Presley stood near the base of the dock, his tailcoat stark against the wood, his posture stiff and formal. Farther out, near the end, Sebastian Hart stood with his hands in his pockets, his head tilted as he spoke to someone on the boat moored there.

The boat. The Briar Rose.

Elena's eyes traveled up, taking it in. A sleek, white vessel with dark blue trim, maybe forty feet long, with a cabin and a deck and a flying bridge. It was elegant, understated, the kind of boat that screamed money without trying. And there, on the edge of the deck, leaning against the railing with his arms crossed, stood Liam Thorn.

He looked different from this distance, smaller, less imposing, but she recognized the shape of him — the broad shoulders, the dark hair, the way he held himself still even in motion. He was talking to Sebastian, his head tilted in that careful, assessing way she'd come to know. She couldn't hear the words from here, not over the wind and the distant sound of water and the commotion of the loading.

There was commotion down by the water. A small crew moved around the boat, hauling boxes and supplies up the gangplank, their voices carrying faintly across the water. Crates were being loaded alongside bags of what looked like provisions and equipment she couldn't identify. The boat was being prepared for departure.

For their trip.

The realization hit her low in the stomach, cold and heavy. The trip. The wager she'd lost. The week she'd agreed to give him. He was taking her on that boat, away from everything—the manor, the city, any chance of escape or backup. Just her and Liam Thorn on open water, far from anyone she knew.

She gripped the railing, her knuckles white against the cold iron. The wind tugged at her hair, pulling strands across her face, and she didn't brush them away. She just stood there, staring down at the scene below, her mind racing through possibilities and fears and the single, burning question:

What have I gotten myself into?

Down on the dock, Sebastian laughed at something Liam said, the sound carrying up to her like a bell. Liam didn't laugh. He just nodded, his gaze steady, and then he looked up — directly up, toward the cliff, toward the patio, toward her.

Their eyes met across the distance, and she felt the world go still.

He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He just looked at her, his face unreadable, and held her gaze for a long, suspended moment. Then he turned back to Sebastian, without an acknowledgment.

Elena's breath came out in a shaky exhale. She pushed away from the railing, her legs feeling unsteady beneath her, and turned back toward the manor.

She had one day left. One day before she stepped onto that boat, into his world, with no way back. And she still didn't know the truth — about the debt, about the setup, about the man she was about to be trapped with for a week.

She walked back into the dining hall, the door clicking shut behind her, and stood alone in the empty room, the weight of the morning pressing down on her shoulders.

Somewhere in the manor, there had to be answers. A desk drawer. A locked room. Something Liam had overlooked.

She stood there for a long moment, the silence of the dining hall pressing against her ears, the faint sound of lake water and distant voices filtering through the windows. Her hands were still trembling, and she pressed them flat against her thighs to steady them.

She turned from the window and walked back through the dining hall, her footsteps echoing off the high ceiling. The long table stretched beside her, polished wood gleaming, and she ran her fingers along its surface as she passed, feeling the cool smoothness against her skin. The chandelier above her hung dark and still, its crystals catching slivers of grey light from the windows.

She reached the entrance to the great hall and stopped. The manor stretched out before her, silent and expectant, its corridors branching off in directions she'd barely explored. The east wing. The study. The library. Liam's private suite, the door she'd never been invited through.

Her pulse quickened.

She looked around — no Presley, no maids, no Victor. The house was empty, everyone down at the dock, distracted by the preparations and Sebastian's unexpected visit. This was the moment. The window she'd been waiting for.

She turned toward the east wing.

Her steps were quick, purposeful, her heart hammering against her ribs as she crossed the great hall and entered the corridor that led to Liam's private quarters. The hallway was dimmer here, the windows smaller, the walls lined with paintings she'd never examined closely. Landscapes, mostly. Dark forests and stormy seas. A man who surrounded himself with controlled chaos.

The door to his suite appeared at the end of the hall, dark wood with a brass handle, solid and unyielding. She stopped in front of it, her hand hovering over the handle, her breath shallow in her chest.

If I open this door, there's no going back.

She thought about Marco. About the debt that wasn't real. About Alexander's words, cold and certain, peeling back the layers of Liam's careful manipulation. She thought about the boat waiting at the dock, ready to take her away from everything she knew, from every chance to find the truth.

She turned the handle.

The door swung open silently, and she stepped inside.