(Damien's POV)
The glass ceiling arched overhead like a ribcage, the winter light filtered through panes streaked with condensation. The conservatory was quiet at this hour — too early for the socialites who would later wander in for photo ops, too specialized for tourists.
Perfect for what he needed.
He had arrived fifteen minutes early, not out of impatience but habit. Control the space before your opponent enters it — rule number one. Elise's contact was due in twenty, a man with enough influence over Julian's financial backers to make or break him with a single suggestion.
But for the moment, Damien had the place to himself.
He moved through the rows of potted citrus trees and sculpted topiaries, each step soft against the tiled floor. The air smelled faintly of soil and lemon peel. Through the far glass wall, he could see the restoration wing — scaffolding wrapped around a marble façade, workers moving in precise rhythm.
He paused at a long table where an antique map of Florence lay under protective glass. The Rothwell restoration project. A convenient meeting spot, since Julian's people would expect nothing of it.
Footsteps echoed faintly against the tiles. Not Elise. Not the contact. Too light.
He didn't turn immediately. The reflection in the glass of the map showed her before he heard her voice.
Evelyn Rothwell.
She was dressed for the cold, in a deep green coat that set off the pale of her skin and the darkness of her hair. A small parcel rested in her hands, wrapped in brown paper and twine. She looked around as though surprised to see anyone here at all.
"Mr. Vale," she said, her tone perfectly polite. "I didn't realize anyone else used the conservatory this early."
He straightened, offering the smallest of smiles. "Miss Rothwell. I could say the same."
"I'm delivering something for my sister," she said, lifting the parcel slightly. "She insisted it be here by this morning."
"Always dutiful," he said.
Her eyes met his, level and unreadable. "And you? Business, or pleasure?"
"Business," he said, moving along the table toward her. "Though some would argue the two aren't so different."
She gave the faintest curve of a smile, though it didn't touch her eyes. "I suppose that depends on the company you keep."
They stood at opposite ends of the table now, the map between them like a border neither was willing to cross. Damien studied her openly. Most people flinched under that kind of scrutiny. Evelyn didn't.
She looked the same as she had the last time he'd seen her — no, that wasn't true. She looked older, sharper. The softness of youth had been honed into something steadier. But her eyes… her eyes hadn't changed.
And in those eyes, he saw it — recognition.
She knew.
He leaned one hand on the table, glancing down at the map as if it were his only interest. "Florence. The Rothwells do have a taste for beauty."
"It's part of the exhibition series," she said evenly. "The restoration work is… meticulous."
"So I've heard." He let the silence stretch, watching her in his peripheral vision.
"Have you been?" she asked.
"To Florence?" His gaze flicked to hers. "Once. Years ago. Before certain… events made travel less convenient."
Her grip on the parcel tightened slightly. "I see."
They held each other's gaze a moment longer than civility required.
It was a quiet duel — his refusal to name himself, her refusal to ask.
She broke it first, glancing toward the entrance. "I should deliver this before the director starts wondering where I am."
"Of course," he said, stepping aside. "Wouldn't want to keep anyone waiting."
As she passed, the faintest trace of her perfume reached him — something clean, with an edge of citrus. He watched her go without turning fully, tracking the rhythm of her steps until the glass door closed behind her.
He didn't move for a moment. The parcel. The green coat. The steadiness in her voice.
Evelyn Rothwell was not here by accident.
And now, there was no doubt — she remembered the man beneath the name Vale. Which meant she was a risk.
Or an advantage.
The difference, as always, would depend on how he played her.
By the time Elise's contact arrived, Damien had already made the decision. Evelyn Rothwell would not be left to move freely on the board.
Not because she might expose him — but because she might try to.
And if she wanted to enter the game, she would play it by his rules.