The meeting bled into pleasantries, the kind that tasted like ash on the tongue. Men shook hands with eyes that promised knives in the dark. Isla stood when her brother did, her gloves tugged into place, her face a portrait of elegance carved in marble.

The hallway outside was dim, lined with tall windows that let in only slivers of moonlight. She walked with measured grace, each step perfectly timed to the echo of her heels — unhurried, as though she had nowhere urgent to be. A calculated performance.

But as soon as the turn in the corridor cut her from view, she moved. Quick. Quiet. She slipped between two towering potted palms into a service passage, the scent of oil lamps and old wood wrapping around her. The air here felt different — thicker, more dangerous.

She knew he would find her. Or maybe she was finding him. The distinction blurred in moments like these.

Her gloves brushed against the rough brick wall as she took a narrow stairway down, her heartbeat a steady thrum in her ears. Behind her, a faint sound — a footstep too deliberate to be a servant’s — drew her lips into the faintest curve.

The door at the bottom of the stairs was unlocked. It swung open to the cool night air, the garden spread out in shadow and silver light. She stepped onto the gravel path.