The suite door shut with a muted click, sealing them off from the murmurs of the garden below. Damien leaned against the panel for a moment, eyes following the line of light under the bathroom door. He still felt the shape of her body under his hands from the sculptor's game -- the weight of her wrist resting in his palm, the warmth of her shoulder when he'd adjusted it, the slow rise of her breath as she'd let him guide her. Every gesture had been part of the rules, and yet each one had lodged in his skin.
Water hissed on the other side of the door. He loosened his tie with fingers that didn't want to cooperate, tugged at his cuff links. Logan's face flashed into his head -- the casual lean at the drink table, the way his eyes had tracked Maya like she was already halfway his. That image sat like a stone in Damien's chest. He'd told himself all night to stay calm, keep the mask, but the longer he'd watched Logan orbit her, the more the mask had started to crack.
The door opened and steam drifted out in slow waves. Maya stepped through barefoot, hotel robe tied at her waist, damp hair clinging to her neck. She moved across the carpet toward the vanity without noticing him. A towel in her hand, she bent her head and began to blot her hair, the movement exposing the slope of her nape, the curve where her robe had slipped a little loose. Droplets ran from the ends of her hair down over her collarbone and disappeared beneath the fabric.
He tried to look away. He didn't. Every slow pass of the towel, every flick of her fingers through the wet strands tugged something deeper in him than he wanted to name. She reached for the hair dryer, flicked it on, the hum filling the room. Warm air stirred her hair around her face; she pushed it back with one hand, eyes half-lidded, unaware of him.
Damien's throat tightened. He remembered how she'd stood during the game, still and pliant under his hands, trusting him to shape her pose. He remembered her laugh against his shoulder when he'd steadied her, the tremor of it sliding into his palm. He remembered the kiss at the semester-end party -- quick, unexpected, but heavy enough that weeks later he still felt it like a mark. Watching her now, backlit by the lamp, hair whipping in the dryer's breath, he felt the same mark rising to the surface.
She caught his reflection in the mirror and cut the dryer off. "You're staring," she said quietly. Not teasing, not angry -- just a statement.
He stepped further into the room. "You should dry it all the way," he managed. His voice came out rougher than he meant. "You'll catch a chill."
"I'm fine." She turned back to the mirror, running her fingers through the damp ends.
He wanted to cross the space, take the dryer from her hands, finish the job himself just to feel the weight of her hair sliding over his knuckles. He wanted to tilt her face up, kiss the water from her skin, hold her there until the noise in his chest stopped. Instead he stood where he was, palms open, fighting to keep still.
When she finished, she wound the cord neatly and set the dryer aside. She padded to the bed and slipped under the covers, still in the robe, back turned slightly toward him. "Long day," she murmured.
He stripped off his jacket and shirt and sat on the edge of his side, watching her move against the sheets. The curve of her hip under the fabric, the way she folded one arm beneath her head, the scent of warm citrus rising from her hair -- every small thing caught him. The more she tried to disappear into her corner of the bed, the more his chest ached with the urge to reach across and pull her into his.
She shifted and looked over at him, eyes dark in the dim light. "You're quiet," she said again.
"Just thinking."
"About what?"
He didn't answer. He lay back, facing her, an arm's length between them. Her damp hair spread across the pillow, faintly glowing in the lamp's soft circle. He stared at her profile, the line of her throat, the shadow of her lashes. Every breath she took he felt in his own chest.
For a long moment they just looked at each other in silence. His hand hovered halfway toward her before he let it fall to the mattress. "Good night," he said finally, low.
She exhaled softly, eyes fluttering shut. "Good night, Damien."
The lamp clicked off. In the darkness her outline was only a memory of light and scent and heat. He lay awake, every nerve pulled taut by the space between them, remembering Logan's eyes on her, remembering his own hand at her waist during the game, remembering the kiss that had started all of this. He shut his eyes but sleep stayed far away.
Upstairs, Helena sat at the small desk in her suite, a stack of papers spread in front of her like cards. The lights of the garden flickered faintly through the window but she didn't look at them. Her fingers traced the edges of a photograph, a printout from a registry, an article with a date that didn't fit. Nothing conclusive, nothing she could show anyone as proof -- but the seams didn't match.
Evelyn stood near the minibar, arms crossed. "Mother," she said softly, "please stop."
Helena didn't lift her eyes. "I'm not accusing anyone."
"You're digging."
"I'm looking." She tapped one of the printouts. "This says she was in Paris that summer. This one says she was in Milan. Same week. Same year. That doesn't happen."
Evelyn came closer. "It could be a mistake. A typo. Or you're reading it wrong."
"I've checked three times."
Evelyn lowered her voice further. "You'll only make trouble. Damien trusts her. Let it go."
Helena finally looked up, her gaze steady. "When something is too perfect, it's almost always hiding a flaw. I only need to find the seam."
Evelyn put a hand on her shoulder. "If you're wrong, you'll hurt him."
"If I'm right, I'll protect him." She gathered the papers into the folder, sliding each page in with deliberate care. "I won't act rashly. I'll be discreet. But I'll know."
She stood and crossed to the window. From here she could see a corner of the garden below, now mostly empty, and a darkened window in the wing where Damien's room was. She stared at it for a long moment, as if the glass could give up its secrets.
Her phone buzzed softly in her hand. She thumbed it awake and scrolled to a number, hesitated, then typed a new message instead. When she hit send the screen lit her face pale blue. She'd make the call in the morning. Someone would find the truth quietly, without alarms.
Behind her, Evelyn watched, her worry deepening. "Mother…" she whispered. But Helena was already moving back to the desk, closing the folder with a soft snap. The sound hung in the room like a promise.