Elena slid into the chair opposite Lisa and reached for a napkin, the linen cool and stiff against her fingers. She picked up a croissant, tore off a piece, and forced herself to chew. The flaky pastry turned to paste in her mouth.

“—and I swear, the way he looked at the menu, you’d think it was written in ancient Greek.” Lisa laughed, gesturing with a jam-smeared knife. “Like bro, it’s eggs. Read the words.”

Elena nodded. Took another bite. Swallowed without tasting.

“You’re not hearing a word I’m saying.”

The knife clicked against the plate as Lisa set it down. Elena looked up, caught. Lisa’s eyes narrowed, not angry, just peeling away the act.

“Sorry,” Elena said. “I’m listening now.”

“Was it that bad? Asking him for another day?” Lisa leaned forward, her voice lower now, private. “If he said no, just tell me. I can grab the train.”

Elena shook her head. “I haven’t asked him yet.” She set the torn croissant down. “I couldn’t find him. He was… elsewhere.” Guiding a crying girl through a corridor. She pushed that image down. “I’ll find him after breakfast. Don’t worry. I’ll ask.”

Lisa studied her for a long moment, then picked up her coffee and took a sip. “Alright. But you’re a terrible liar, Rossi. You know that, right?”

Elena didn’t answer. She finished her coffee in silence, let the warmth settle in her chest, and stood. “I’ll be right back.”

The hallway was empty when she stepped out. The manor breathed around her—creaking wood, distant footsteps, the low hum of activity somewhere below. She turned toward the main wing and nearly collided with Presley, who appeared from a side corridor as if summoned.

“Miss Rossi.” He inclined his head. “Mr. Thorn is in the library, if you’re looking for him.”

Elena blinked. “How did you—”

Presley’s expression didn’t shift. “I make it my business to know where people are, miss. It saves time.” He gestured to the floor above. “The library.”

She thanked him and walked, her heels soft on the runner. Reaching the library door, she found it ajar, a sliver of warm light cutting across the dark wood floor. She pushed it open.

Liam sat in the deep leather armchair by the fireplace, a ledger open across his lap. His jacket was off, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, the bandage on his chest a pale square visible through the open collar. He looked up when she entered, and the ledger closed with a soft thump. He set it aside, his attention settling on her like a weight.

Elena stopped a few feet from him. “I need to ask you something.”

He waited.

“Lisa. Can she stay another night? Just tonight. She’ll leave in the morning.”

Liam’s gaze held hers. There was no calculation in it, no game. He simply nodded. “Yes.”

Her eyes opened in surprise. She had expected a deal. A new contract. Something…

"After the events of last night, I want to ensure you both are ok." He said. His voice a little softer than before. “You two were drugged under my care, and that is unforgivable. Please have her stay to ensure she is ok.”

She stood there, shocked. A sense of security started to grow inside her. “Thank you, Sir.” Her voice quickly let out.

“Elena.”

She stopped.

His voice was low, unhurried. “I command. Come here.” He pointed to the floor directly in front of him. “And kneel.”

Her breath caught. The command landed soft but absolute, like a door clicking shut. She hesitated—just a beat, just enough to feel the weight of the choice—then remembered the words she’d agreed to. “Yes, Sir.” She crossed the distance, lowered herself to her knees on the rug before him, and waited.

Liam studied her from above, his blue eyes tracing her face. Then his hand lifted, and his fingers brushed her hair back from her temple, slow, deliberate. The touch was warm and patient, and it undid something she hadn’t realized she was holding together.

As she knelt before him, he reached out. Taking his hand, he gently stroked across her cheekbone, slowly caressing her face. The touch felt Calm and Caring. Nothing like she expected. He then moved his hand and placed it on her head. Slowly rubbing. Relaxing.

His hand was heavy and warm against her scalp. His fingers moved through the thick waves of her hair with a slow, methodical rhythm, parting the strands, the pads of his thumbs pressing in small circles at her temples. The silence stretched, filled only by the whisper of his skin against hers. Her knees pressed against the soft rug, but the discomfort was distant, secondary to the hypnotic pull of his touch. She could feel every callus, every ridge of his palm. She closed her eyes, her breath leaving her in a long, shaky exhale she hadn't meant to release.

The nightmare still clung to her. The screams. The helplessness. The image of the maid huddled against the wall. She'd spent the morning holding herself together so tightly she hadn't realized how exhausted she was. Under his hand, some of that tension finally began to crack.

Everything she’d carried in her neck since waking began to unravel under his hand. It was a freeing, loosening. Her shoulders dropped. The rigid line of her spine softened. The strength of his arms as they moved next to her. She found herself leaning into it. The scent of him—clean linen, expensive soap, something darker beneath—wrapped around her.

He didn’t speak. He just kept touching her, his exploration moving back to her temples to trace the shell of her ear, the line of her jaw. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth as his hand pulled away. Her lips parted. A silent gasp. The air in the library was cool, but where his skin met hers, it burned.

Finally, he stilled. His other hand came up, two fingers tilting her chin until she had no choice but to look at him. The flamelight danced in his flat, assessing eyes. She could see his face, reading hers. The heat from the flush of her cheeks. The deep blue of his eyes was watching hers. The way she could feel her lips tremble.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice a low rasp.

She stared at him. That wasn't the question she'd expected. Not after the command. Not after the silence. Not after the scrutiny in his eyes.

She'd expected an instruction. A correction or another demand.

Not him asking if she was alright.

Only then did the memory of the maid come back to her. In turn, the night before. Flooded back into her head all the stresses she had. Was she ok? No. She wasn’t. How could she be?

“I’m Ok.” She lied, looking for any escape. Who was this man before her, so kind and gentle, yet so fearsome and demanding?

“Enjoy your day, please take it easy.” He said, his voice lower than usual. “You both should feel free to use and wander the premises. Just don’t leave the premises.”

Elena pushed herself up from the rug. Her knees ached from the weave, but she didn't let it show. She murmured a thank-you and walked. She didn't run. Her hand found the door handle with desperate precision, and she pulled it closed behind her with a click that sounded like a gunshot in the silent hall.

The hallway stretched endlessly. She counted the doors. Third on the left. Second on the right. Her own. She turned the handle and stepped inside, and the moment the lock clicked home behind her, the mask cracked. Her back hit the wood paneling, and she slid down until she was sitting on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees. A sound escaped her—thin, ragged, nothing like a human should make.

She made it to the bed before the first sob tore through her. The sheets smelled of lavender and clean linen. She pressed her face into the pillow and let go. The tears came hot and fast, soaking the cotton, her shoulders shaking. Everything she'd held at bay since the scream, since the cold water, since the sight of Liam leading that girl away—it all poured out of her in ugly, gasping heaves.

She cried for herself. For Lisa. For the maid with the tear-streaked face. For the version of herself who'd knelt without being asked twice. She didn't hear the knock at first. Only on the third rap did her head lift, eyes swollen, cheeks slick, a wild, cornered animal in the lamplight.

She wiped her face with the heel of her palm, working quickly to wipe away the tears. "One moment." Her voice was wrecked. She crossed to the door and opened it a crack.

Presley stood in the doorway, his gloved hands holding a tray of tea. He did not enter. “Miss Rossi. Forgive the intrusion. I felt that some tea would help you with your nerves. Chamomile Tea.” He then brings in the tray. “Is there… any way I might be of further assistance?” The question was perfectly formal, but his slate-colored eyes held on to hers.

Elena wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The salt of her tears was still on her skin. She looked at him, this man of polished voids. “How does he treat them?” she asked, her voice hollow. “The people who work here.”

Presley’s expression did not change. “The master is a man of exacting standards. He is… strict. But he has always been fair. The house operates with a clarity many would envy.”

“The maid,” Elena said. The words felt like stones in her throat. “The one crying this morning. The one he was walking back to the servants’ wing. What happened to her?”

This time, the hesitation showed in the smallest break in his precision. Presley’s gaze flicked to the door behind him, then back. He took a single, silent step towards her and spoke quietly. “The young woman in question was the individual found in possession of empty vials of Eros,” he said, his voice lowered to a dry whisper. “Discovered during the staff search this morning.”

A cold wave washed through Elena’s stomach. She saw the girl’s shaking shoulders, the raw, wet sobs. “She did it?”

“She swore she did not know how the vials came to be hidden in her quarters. She was… distraught.” Presley’s words were precise, surgical. “The matter was handled personally by the master. He is a skilled reader of deceit. The evidence was compelling.”

“What did he do to her?” Elena’s voice was a thread.

“Administrative discipline is standard in the home,” Presley said evenly. “It is used to maintain order and prevent recurrence. The specifics are handled internally.” But he is not a man of idle cruelty, Miss Rossi. His actions are always purposeful.”

Elena’s knees felt weak. She braced a hand on the desk. The image of Thorn’s impassive face watching the girl cry now had a frame, a reason. The fairness of a judge, the mercy of a guillotine. Purposeful. The dread in her gut solidified into a hard, cold mass. This was the clarity of his house. This was the price of defiance, or even of being in the wrong place.

“Thank you, Presley,” she managed.

He gave a shallow bow. “Of course.” He turned to leave, his hand on the door handle. He paused, his back to her. “Take care, Miss Rossi.” Then he was gone, the door sighing shut behind him, leaving her alone with the tea.

Twenty minutes passed. Elena sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the teacup Presley had left, the chamomile gone cold. She hadn't touched it. Her mind kept circling back to the maid, to the vials, to the way Liam had looked at her in the library—soft, almost, before the command.

The door swung open without a knock.

Lisa swept in, her blue and pink hair waving. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed with color. She looked alive in a way that warmed Elena to see.

"Okay, so, I just got to talk with Marta." Lisa dropped onto the armchair by the window, pulling her legs up under her. "And I have to say—she is an absolute treasure. Do you know she made the croissants from scratch? From scratch, Elena. I watched her roll the dough. It was like watching a sculptor work. She let me taste the raspberry jam straight from the pot."

Elena managed a small smile. "She's amazing."

"Amazing? Again: She's a national treasure. I told her she should open a bakery, and she just laughed and said she's happy here." Lisa tilted her head, studying Elena. Her grin faded. "Okay. You look like you've seen a ghost."

Elena's hand went to her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. "I'm fine. Just tired."

"Bullshit," Lisa said it without heat, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. "You've got that look. The one you get when you've been thinking too hard about things you can't fix."

Elena opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Lisa knew her too well.

"I'm not gonna push," Lisa said, her voice softer now. "But I'm also not gonna let you sit in here and spiral. The storm cleared up. Sun's out. We're getting some fresh air."

Elena blinked. "What?"

"You heard me. Up. Grab your swimsuit." Lisa was already on her feet, crossing to her bag. She unzipped it and pulled out a bright green tank top, holding it up with a grin. "I came prepared."

Elena stared at her. "Lisa, I don't think—"

"No thinking. That's the problem. You're thinking too much. What you need is sun and water, and maybe a little bit of laughs. Come on."

Something in Lisa's tone—the easy warmth, the refusal to let Elena drown—cracked through the fog. Elena even found herself letting out a little giggle. "Fine. Okay."

She crossed to the wardrobe and pulled open the doors. Her fingers passed over the work clothes, the formal dresses, until they found the swimsuit. The Molton Crimson twopiece. She remembered the boutique, remembered how incredible it made her look, and exposed. The fabric was rich, deep red, flowing across with a black pattern to make it look like lava.

She pulled it out and grabbed it with a sundress.

"I'm going to use the bathroom," she said, not meeting Lisa's eyes.

"Go ahead. I'll change here."

Elena stepped through the archway into the bathroom and closed the door. The room was white marble, cool and quiet. She set the swimsuit on the counter and looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were still red-rimmed, her hair a mess. She looked like she'd been through a war.

She turned away from her reflection, used the toilet quickly, then stripped off her clothes. The swimsuit slid on like a second skin. The top cupped her C-cups perfectly, the understrap wrapping tightly underneath, the straps crossing over her shoulder blade. The bottoms sat high on her hips, the cut elongating her legs. She adjusted the fabric, smoothed it over, and couldn’t help but realize how perfectly it fit. It fit like it had been made for her.

She pulled on the sundress—a simple maroon cotton number, nothing fancy, with thin straps and a hem that fell just above her knees—and slipped it over her head. The fabric whispers over the swimsuit. She ran her fingers through her hair, tried to tame it, and gave up. Then she stepped back into the bedroom.

Lisa was just straightening her own swimsuit—a sporty green ruched style that she found very cute. She looked up as Elena entered, and her eyes went wide.

"Whoa."

Elena froze. "What?"

"What do you mean, what? What do you have hiding under that sundress?" Lisa crossed the room in three quick strides, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "Let me see."

"Lisa, no—"

But Lisa's hand was already there, grabbing the hem of the sundress and lifting it, exposing the crimson swimsuit beneath. Elena yelped, batting at Lisa's hand, but Lisa just laughed, holding the dress up for a full three seconds before letting it fall.

"Okay, okay—" Elena stepped back, her cheeks burning. "Are you done?"

"Not even close." Lisa's grin was wolfish. "Where did you get that? That's not—Elena, that's not a swimsuit you pick up at Target. That's like, designer. Like, red-carpet-at-a-beach-club designer. That thing probably costs more than my rent."

Elena looked away, her hand going to the strap of her sundress. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing. It's—" Lisa paused. Her eyes narrowed. "Liam."

Elena didn't answer. She didn't have to.

"Of course it's Liam." Lisa laughed, shaking her head. "Of course. He's got you in designer lingerie, designer dresses, and now designer swimwear. The man has taste, I'll give him that." She reached out and tugged the strap of Elena's sundress, peeking at the crimson fabric again. "Can I just—"

"Lisa."

"I'm just looking. It's art. The way it fits you—" Lisa circled her, appraising. "The cut is insane. And the color. It's perfect for your skin tone." She stopped in front of Elena, hands on her hips. "I hate how good you look."

Elena shifted, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. "Can we go now?"

"Yeah, yeah." Lisa gave her a small, affectionate shove. "But we're talking about this later. You're keeping secrets, Rossi. I can feel it."

Elena didn't answer. She just led the way out of the room.

The hallway was quiet. They passed the library door—closed now—and took the main staircase down to the ground floor. The manor felt different in the afternoon light. Warmer. The dust motes that had hung in the morning air were gone, replaced by shafts of golden sun that fell across the old wood floors.

"So," Lisa said, her voice bouncing off the high ceilings, "Let’s go to the lake! I’m dying to get wet!"

"Ok, well, go to the lake," Elena said. "It’s out back, past the dining hall."

"Past the dining hall. Of course there is." Lisa shook her head. "This place is insane. It's like a hotel. A really creepy, really beautiful hotel."

They passed through the dining hall, the long table empty, the chandelier dark. Presley was there, arranging silverware, and he straightened as they entered.

"Miss Rossi. Miss Chen. Are you heading to the lake?"

"Yes," Elena said. "Is that—"

"Of course. Towels are in a cabinet down on the lakeside, near the loungers. If you need anything, please use the phone down there. It connects to our staff phone here."

Lisa raised an eyebrow. "Easy communication. Nice."

Presley's expression didn't flicker. "We aim to accommodate, Miss Chen."

Elena pushed open the back door, and the afternoon air hit her—clean, warm, carrying the smell of wet earth and pine. The storm had washed everything clean. The sky was a deep blue, with a few white clouds in the sky, and the sun peeking between them. A large wooden patio lined the edge of the small cliff. The lake stretched out below.

Lisa stopped at the edge of the patio. "Holy shit."

Elena stepped up beside her, following her gaze. Below the patio, the ground sloped gently into a small, private cove—a strip of pale sand edged with flat stones, where a pair of wooden loungers sat angled toward the water. A neat cabinet stood against the cliff face. Beyond the sand, a narrow wooden dock jutted into the lake, and at its end, a single-mast sailboat bobbed gently, its white hull gleaming in the afternoon light.

The boat was already moored when Elena reached the dock, sitting steady against the water. She slowed without meaning to, her attention catching on it as it came fully into view.

It wasn’t loud or showy. Just a long, clean sweep of white cutting through the surface of the water, held together by sharp lines and quiet precision. Everything about it looked intentional, stripped of anything unnecessary, as though excess had simply never been an option in its design. Even at rest, it didn’t feel idle. It felt composed.

Her gaze lingered longer than she intended.

There was something about it that felt familiar in a way she couldn’t immediately place. Controlled. Composed. Unbothered by attention. The thought formed before she could stop it, slipping into place with an ease that unsettled her.

Like Liam.

She didn’t dwell on it. Didn’t let herself.

Instead, her eyes drifted to the name near the stern.

Briar Rose.

It was soft in sound, almost delicate compared to the structure it belonged to, but even that softness felt restrained—like it had been chosen carefully, with just enough meaning to matter without asking to be understood. Not something built to impress. Something built to move when it chose to.

Elena exhaled slowly, the feeling settling heavier in her chest than she expected. After a moment, she forced herself to look away from it.

"That's not a rowboat," Lisa said, squinting. "That's a yacht. A small one, but still." She turned to Elena, eyebrows high. "He keeps a sailboat. Does he even sail?"

Elena shrugged. "I don't know. I've never been down here before." The words came out quieter than she intended. She hadn't even known this part of the property existed—another hidden corner of Liam's world, another thing he hadn't chosen to share, or she had chosen not to explore.

"Well, we're here now." Lisa grabbed her towel from the railing and started down the wooden steps that switchbacked along the cliff face. "Come on. I want to see if the water's as clear as it looks from up here."

Elena followed, her sandals slapping against the warm wood. The air shifted as they descended—cooler, damper, carrying the mineral scent of lake water. By the time her feet touched the sand, the world above felt distant, muffled. She stopped at the edge of the lounger, looked out at the sailboat, and felt something loosen in her chest.

Elena said nothing. She walked to the nearest lounger, dropped her towel, and pulled the sundress over her head. The air kissed her bare skin. She sat down on the edge of the lounger, her feet on the warm sand, and looked out at the water.

Lisa joined her a moment later, having shed her sweater and shorts to reveal the green swimwear. She sat on the lounger next to Elena's, leaned back on her elbows, and let out a long, contented sigh.

"Okay," Lisa said, her eyes closed, face turned to the sun. "This is better. This is so much better than sitting in that room."

Elena nodded. She lay back on the lounger, the cushion soft beneath her, and let the sun warm her face. The tension in her shoulders didn't disappear, but it loosened. Just a little.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The water lapped against the pool's edge. A bird called somewhere in the trees.

"You know you can tell me, right?" Lisa's voice was quiet. "Whatever it is. Whatever's going on here. You can tell me."

Elena kept her eyes closed. "I know."

"But you won't."

"Not because I don't trust you." Elena opened her eyes and turned her head to look at Lisa. "Because I don't know how to say it. I don't even know what it is yet."

Lisa held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay. But when you figure it out, I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere."

Elena's throat tightened. She looked away, at the water, at the sky, at anything but Lisa's face. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet. I'm about to drag you into that lake."

"Lisa—"

But Lisa was already on her feet, grabbing Elena's wrist, pulling her upright. Elena stumbled, laughing despite herself, and then Lisa was running, pulling her toward the edge of the dock. Elena dug in her heels, but it was too late. Lisa let go, and Elena went over the edge alone, hitting the water with a splash that swallowed the world.

The cold hit her like a shock, clean and sharp and real. She surfaced, gasping, her hair plastered to her face, and found Lisa already in the water, laughing.

"You—" Elena splashed her. "You pushed me."

"I dragged you. There's a difference." Lisa ducked under the water, came up shaking her head, droplets flying. "Feel better?"

Elena floated on her back, the water holding her, the sun warm on her face. The world was quiet except for the sound of water and Lisa's breathing. The heaviness in her chest didn't disappear. But it loosened. Just a little more.

"Yeah," she said, her voice soft. "Actually, I do."