The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long shadows across the your bedchamber.

She waited.

Your breathing was slow, steady—the measured rhythm of a soldier’s rest. No drunken stupor, no careless oblivion. Even in sleep, you were disciplined.

Of course you were.

She had gambled everything tonight. A carefully timed "accidental" meeting in the gardens. A blush that wasn’t entirely feigned when your fingers brushed hers. The way she’d let her dress slip just slightly off her shoulder as she poured your wine—enough to tempt, not enough to seem eager.

And it had worked.

Barely.

You hadn’t been what she expected. No sloppy kisses, no fumbling hands. Every touch had been deliberate, calculating, as if you were studying her reactions. As if you knew.

But you couldn’t have. Because you'd let her stay.

The study door creaked as she slipped inside.

Stupid. She froze, pulse hammering in her throat. A full minute passed before she dared move again.

Moonlight spilled across the desk, illuminating scattered maps, inkwells, a dagger left carelessly beside a stack of letters. The room smelled of leather and iron—like you.

Her hands shook as she rifled through the papers.

Where is it?

The Madam’s orders had been specific: Bring me that letter, or I’ll sell you to the flesh markets. And trust me, girl, they’ll make you beg for the gallows.

But nothing was where it should be. The drawers were locked. The ledgers coded. Even your damned quills were lined up with military precision.

She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood.

Think. Think.

Her fingers brushed a hidden compartment beneath the desk—

Click.

The drawer slid open.

And there it was.

The letter.

Black wax. Unbroken.

She reached for it—

"Disappointing."

Her blood turned to ice.

You stood in the doorway, fully dressed, arms crossed. No trace of sleep on your face. No surprise.

Only cold, quiet certainty.

She hadn’t outmaneuvered you.

She’d never outmaneuvered you.