When Elena opened her eyes, the light was different. Thin. Grey. The rain had softened to a murmur against the glass, and the room held the hush of a house that had been through something and wasn't sure what to do with itself yet.
The bed beside her was empty. The sheets were cool, the indent of Lisa's body already fading. From beyond the closed bathroom door came the rush of water, the muffled sound of someone moving under a spray.
Elena lay still, her body heavy and strange. The robes from last night still bundled tightly around her.
She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes and tried to sort the night into something she could hold. The cold water. Liam's voice cutting through the haze. The way his hands had gripped her arms, steady, certain, pulling her back to herself. The feel of the tile beneath her, the shock of the shower, Lisa's sobs from the other room.
Then Lisa's mouth on her. Lisa's hands. The heat that had answered before her mind could catch up.
Elena's stomach turned. She sat up, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and let the silk pool around her thighs. The floor was cool against her bare feet. Solid. Real.
A knock came at the door. Three short raps, precise enough that Elena knew who it was before she answered.
"Come in." Her voice came out rougher than she expected.
The door opened, and Presley stepped inside, a silver tray in his hands. Two cups of coffee, steam curling from each. A small pitcher of cream. A dish of sugar cubes.
"Good morning, Miss Rossi." His voice was the same as always—measured, warm at the edges. "I trust you slept."
She wasn’t sure if it was a question, but he wasn't going to push for an answer.
He crossed to the small table by the window, the same one where Liam had set the Eros-laced bedding the night before, and set the tray down with a quiet click of porcelain against wood. His eyes moved as he straightened—a slow, practiced scan of the room. The rumpled sheets. The discarded robe on the chair. The closed bathroom door. The fogged window with its fading thorn.
Nothing escaped him. Nothing ever did.
"Mr. Thorn asked me to confirm you're well before I attend to the morning's other matters," Presley said. It wasn't a guess.
Elena nodded, her throat tight. "I'm fine."
Presley's gaze held hers for a beat longer than necessary. Not a challenge. An assessment. One caretaker checking another's lie for cracks.
"Very good, miss." He turned toward the door, then paused. "If you need anything—anything at all—the kitchen staff have been instructed to assist without question."
"The kitchen staff." Elena's voice came out flat. "Not security."
Presley didn't turn. "The security team is occupied with the investigation. You're not to be disturbed by it."
He left before she could ask anything else. The door clicked shut behind him, soft and final.
Elena sat in the silence, the steam from the coffee rising in thin curls. She could feel the heat from here, the promise of something simple and warm. She pushed herself up, crossed to the table, and wrapped her fingers around one of the cups. The ceramic was hot against her palms. Real. Grounding.
The shower was still running. She could hear the water hitting the tile, the occasional shift of Lisa's body behind the fogged glass. The sound should have been ordinary. A friend washing off a strange night. Instead, it sat in Elena's chest like something she didn't have a name for.
She lifted the coffee and walked through the bathroom archway, the air inside thick with steam and the smell of lavender soap. She pushed it open with her shoulder, stepped inside, and settled onto the edge of the marble counter.
The mirror was completely fogged. The glass of the shower stall was a wall of condensation, Lisa's silhouette a blurred shape behind it—an arm lifting, a head tilted back, the dark smear of wet hair against pale shoulders.
Elena watched. The steam wrapped around her, warm and damp, and for a moment the shape in the shower was someone else. Broader. Darker. A man standing under the spray, his back to her, water sluicing over the bandage on his chest. Liam, standing in this same shower last night, pulling her into the cold, his hands certain on her skin, his voice cutting through the chemical fog—
She blinked.
The silhouette in the shower was Lisa again. Smaller. Softer. A woman washing lavender soap from her hair.
Elena took a long sip of the coffee. It burned her tongue. She welcomed it.
The water cut off. The sudden silence was loud, the drip of the showerhead the only sound. The glass door slid open, and Lisa stepped out, a towel already in her hand, pressing it to her face.
She was naked. Water beaded on her skin, catching the dim light from the sconces. She didn't seem to notice at first—just scrubbed the towel over her hair, her shoulders, her neck. Then she lowered it, blinked through the steam, and saw Elena sitting on the counter, coffee in hand.
Lisa froze. The towel hung loose around her shoulders, her dark hair a wet tangle, water still dripping down her collarbone.
"Hey." Her voice was quiet. Careful. The way you spoke to someone who might spook.
Elena lifted the coffee slightly. "Presley brought these up. Yours is on the table in the room."
Lisa didn't move. Water pooled at her feet, dark against the white tile. She swallowed, and Elena watched her throat move, watched her hands tighten on the towel.
"Elena." Lisa's voice cracked on the second syllable, and that was it—the careful wall she'd been holding collapsed. "I'm so fucking sorry. I don't—I can't—"
"Stop."
Lisa's mouth closed. Her eyes were wet, but Elena couldn't tell if it was steam or tears. Probably both.
"It wasn't you." Elena set the coffee down on the counter beside her, the ceramic clicking against the marble. "It wasn't me. We were drugged. Neither of us chose that."
Lisa's breath hitched. She pressed the towel to her face again, but her shoulders were shaking. When she lowered it, her eyes were red. "I don't remember everything. I remember wanting—and not caring that you didn't—and then Liam was there, and I was in the tub, and I couldn't stop crying, and I didn't even know why."
"I don't remember everything either." Elena's voice stayed steady, even though her chest was tight. "But I remember enough to know it wasn't your fault. You didn't lace the sheets, Lisa. You didn't put that drug in the air. You were a victim too."
Lisa let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "Some victim. I was the one—"
"I know what you were doing." Elena cut her off, gentle but firm. "I was there. And I'm telling you, it's not a guilt for you to carry."
Lisa stared at her. Nearly naked and her face a mess of tears and steam and the raw edges of the night before. Then she crossed the bathroom in three steps and dropped to her knees in front of Elena, wrapping her arms around her waist, pressing her wet face into the cloth of Elena's robe.
Elena stiffened for half a second. Then she exhaled, slow and steady, and lifted a hand to the back of Lisa's head. Her hair was wet, cool against Elena's fingers. She held her there, feeling the shudder of Lisa's breath through the silk, the damp warmth of her skin, the weight of a friendship that had just survived something neither of them had words for yet.
"Okay," Elena murmured. "Okay."
Lisa's arms tightened. Her voice came out muffled against the silk. "I was so scared when I woke up. I didn't know what happened. I thought I'd ruined everything."
Elena kept her hand on Lisa's head, her fingers tracing slow, soothing lines through the wet hair. "You didn't ruin anything."
The words hung in the steam-thick air, and Elena felt their weight settle on her chest. It was true. And it wasn't. Something had shifted in the night—a seam she hadn't known was there, now pulled loose. She didn't know yet what would come through it.
But that wasn't Lisa's guilt to carry either.
The steam was beginning to thin, the edges of the bathroom coming back into focus. Lisa's shoulders had stopped shaking, her breath evening out against Elena's thigh. The silk of the nightgown was damp where Lisa's face had pressed into it, a dark patch spreading like a bruise.
"Okay." Lisa pulled back, swiping at her nose with the back of her hand. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but the tears had stopped. "Okay. I'm—I'm good. I'm fine."
She said it like she was trying to convince herself. She pushed up from the floor, the towel slipping, and caught it again before it fell. Water dripped down her legs, leaving dark spots on the white tile.
Elena stood, her legs stiff from sitting on the marble counter. She picked up her coffee, took a sip, and handed the cup to Lisa without a word.
Lisa stared at it for a second, then took it. She drank. The steam curled around her face, and something in her shoulders relaxed, a tension Elena hadn't realized was still there.
"God, I needed that." Lisa's voice was rough, but the edge was gone. She took another sip, then handed the cup back. "Thanks."
"Finish it." Elena nodded at the cup. "There's another one in the room. I'll get dressed."
She stepped past Lisa, through the bathroom arch, and into the bedroom. The air was cooler here, the rain a steady whisper against the window. She crossed to the wardrobe, the one Mrs. Crane had filled with things Elena hadn't chosen, and pulled out a pair of dark jeans and a soft cream sweater. Simple. Normal. Clothes that felt like they belonged to someone who wasn't bound to a contract and a man who could drug her without asking.
She dressed quickly, the fabric warm against her skin, and was buttoning her jeans when Lisa emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a fresh towel. Her hair was still wet, dark strands clinging to her neck and shoulders.
"I don't have anything to wear." Lisa gestured at herself, the towel. "Last night's clothes are probably still wet downstairs. And they smell like wine and disaster."
Elena crossed to the wardrobe again, pulled open the second door. Inside were the clothes she'd never worn—dresses, blouses, skirts, all in her size, all chosen by someone else. She grabbed a simple grey sweater and a pair of black leggings, tossed them to Lisa.
"These should fit. They're a little loose on me."
Lisa caught them, held them up, and raised an eyebrow. "Elena, these are cashmere."
"It's a long story."
"Must be nice, having a sugar daddy with taste."
The words hung in the air. Lisa's eyes went wide, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. "Shit. I didn't mean—"
"It's fine." Elena's voice came out flat. "It's not—he's not—" She stopped. Ran a hand through her hair. "It's complicated."
Lisa pulled on the leggings, then the sweater. The grey was soft against her skin, the sleeves a little long, covering her knuckles. She looked smaller in it. Younger.
"Complicated," she repeated, pulling her damp hair out from under the collar. "That's one word for it."
Elena didn't answer. She crossed to the table, picked up the second cup of coffee, and held it out to Lisa. Lisa took it, wrapping her hands around the warmth, and settled onto the edge of the bed.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The rain filled the silence, a steady rhythm against the glass.
"So." Lisa's voice was careful. Measured. The tone of someone testing a surface before stepping on it. "I'm going to ask you something. And you don't have to answer. But I need to know."
Elena's chest tightened. She leaned against the window frame, the glass cool through the thin sweater. "Okay."
"When we were younger—middle school, high school—you always talked about boys. Had crushes on them. We'd sit on your bedroom floor and you'd gush about that one guy in chemistry class, or the one with the arm cast in sophomore year, or whoever." Lisa's voice was soft, almost nostalgic. "But you never actually did anything about it. You'd go on one date, and then nothing. Remember Jeff?"
Elena let out a short laugh. "Jeff from the coffee shop. He asked me to a movie and spent the whole time talking about his car."
"His Honda Civic, which he called 'a machine.' I remember." Lisa grinned, but it faded quickly. "I'm not trying to embarrass you. I'm just—I've known you for fifteen years. And I've never seen you with anyone. Not once. Not a boyfriend, not a hookup, not even a kiss that you told me about."
Elena's fingers tightened around her coffee cup. "I've been busy."
"I know you have. I know you've been building your business, taking care of Marco, holding everything together. But that's not the whole story, is it?"
Elena looked down at the coffee, the dark surface, the faint ripple of her breath across it. "I've just never met anyone worth—" She stopped. Started again. "I've been attracted to guys. I have. But the ones I met were just boys. Kids who didn't know what they wanted. And I was too focused on my future to waste time on something that wouldn't go anywhere."
"And now?" Lisa's voice was gentle. "You're still into men, right? That hasn't changed?"
Elena looked up. Met Lisa's eyes. "Yes. I'm definitely still into men."
The words came out firm, certain. A ground she could stand on.
Lisa nodded slowly. "Okay. Good. That's—that's good to know." She took a sip of her coffee, then set it down on the nightstand. "So what about Liam?"
The question landed like a stone in still water. Ripples spread in every direction.
"What about him?" Elena's voice came out too quick. Defensive.
"He's a man. Clearly not a boy. And you're living in his house, wearing his cashmere, and last night he carried you into a cold shower and held you while you shivered." Lisa's voice was still gentle, but there was a thread of steel underneath. "I'm not stupid, Elena. I saw the way he looked at you at dinner. The way he touched your back. The way he knew exactly how to get under your skin."
Elena's jaw tightened. "He's my boss. He owns my contract. That's all."
"Is it?"
"Yes." The word came out sharp, final. But even as she said it, something twisted in her chest. A memory surfaced—his hand on her head last night, steady and certain. His voice in her ear, cutting through the chemical fog. Come back. Come back to me.
She pushed it down. "He's a criminal. He admitted it. He had people drug us. He controls everything in this house, every breath I take. I don't like him. I can't like him."
Lisa was quiet for a long moment. She picked up her coffee again, took a slow sip, watching Elena over the rim of the cup. "You said 'can't,' not 'don't.'"
Elena's stomach dropped. "That's not—"
"I'm not trying to trap you." Lisa set the cup down. "I'm just saying—he's intense. And controlling. And dangerous. I get it. I felt it when he looked at me last night, like he was cataloging everything about me. But he also saved us. He pulled us out of that trance. And he carried you to the shower like you were the only thing in the world that mattered."
Elena's throat tightened. She turned toward the window, the fogged glass, the faint outline of the thorn she'd traced still visible in the condensation. "You don't understand, Lisa. You don't know what he's done. What he could do."
"Then tell me."
The words hung in the air. Elena stared at the fogged glass, the thorn. She could feel Lisa's gaze on her back, patient and waiting.
"I can't." Her voice came out small. "It's not—it's not my story to tell. And even if it was, I don't know all of it. He keeps things close. Layers on layers. I'm still trying to figure out what's true and what's a game."
"But you're trying."
Elena turned. Lisa was watching her, her expression unreadable.
"What?"
"You're trying to figure him out. That's not how you treat someone you don't care about."
Elena opened her mouth to argue. Closed it. The words wouldn't come.
Lisa pushed up from the bed, crossed the room, and stood beside Elena at the window. Their shoulders were almost touching. The fogged glass reflected both of them, ghostly shapes in grey light.
"I'm not going to tell you what to feel," Lisa said quietly. "I just want you to be honest with yourself. Because whatever is going on between you two—it's not nothing. And pretending it's nothing won't protect you."
Elena stared at their reflections. Two women in a fogged window, blurred at the edges, the thorn fading between them.
"I don't know what I feel," she admitted. The words tasted like surrender. "I don't know if what I feel is real, or if it's the situation, or if it's—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I've never felt anything like this before. I've never wanted someone to look at me the way he does. And I've never been so scared of what that wanting means."
Lisa was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached out, her fingers brushing Elena's sleeve. "That's okay. You don't have to have it figured out."
Elena let out a shaky breath. "When did you get so wise?"
"I read a lot of advice columns." Lisa's voice was dry, the old humor flickering back. "And I once hacked into the school's grade database to change my history mark. Perspective comes from unexpected places."
Elena blinked. "You did what?"
Lisa's grin was sharp and quick. "Junior year. Mr. Patterson was going to fail me because he lost my final paper. I found his backup files, changed the grade, and left no trace."
"That's—that's illegal."
"It's creative problem-solving." Lisa shrugged. "I taught myself basic code in eighth grade. By high school, I could get into most school systems blindfolded. It's not a skill I advertise, but it's come in handy."
Elena stared at her. The colorful streaks in her hair. The easy grin. The way she'd always seemed like she was skating through life on charm and luck.
"How come you never told me?"
Lisa's grin softened. "Because it's not a party story. It's a 'keep me out of jail' story. And there aren't many people I trust with those."
The weight of the words settled between them. Elena felt something shift, a door opening that she hadn't known was there.
"So you can hack."
"I can do a lot of things." Lisa's eyes glinted. "But I'm not offering. Not yet. Whatever's going on in this house, I want to understand it before I start poking at locks."
Elena nodded slowly. The rain had softened to a drizzle, the grey light outside beginning to thin. The morning was passing, and with it, the window of Lisa's visit was closing.
She turned from the window. Faced Lisa fully. "Stay."
Lisa blinked. "What?"
"Stay another day." Elena's voice came out faster than she'd intended. "I know you have work. I know you didn't plan for this. But I—" She stopped, searched for the right words. "I need someone here. Someone I trust. Someone who isn't part of this world."
Lisa's expression softened. She reached out, took Elena's hand, squeezed it. "Elena."
"Please." The word came out small. Vulnerable. "I don't know who drugged us. I don't know if they're still here. And I don't want to be alone in this house with only Liam and his staff and the ghost of whatever happened last night."
Lisa's grip tightened. She was quiet for a long moment, her eyes searching Elena's face. Then she nodded.
"Okay. I'll stay."
Relief flooded through Elena, warm and sharp. "Thank you."
"But I need to make some calls. Cancel my clients. Tell my landlord I'm not dead." Lisa's grin returned, a little crooked. "And I need breakfast. Real breakfast. Not whatever fancy thing Presley brings up on a silver tray."
Elena laughed, the sound surprising her. "Marta makes the best scrambled eggs I've ever had. And her coffee could wake the dead."
"Then lead the way, Rossi." Lisa tugged her hand, pulling her toward the door. "I'm starving."
Elena let herself be pulled. The weight in her chest hadn't lifted. The questions were still there, the fear, the uncertainty. But for the first time since she'd walked through the gates of Thorn Manor, she wasn't carrying them alone.