Not from submission. From indifference. Jeris's arrangements were already in motion—new identity, smuggling route, precise timing—all confirmed through whispered channels. Only a handful of days remained before I would vanish like morning fog over the harbor. I had no intention of wasting what little remained of myself on performances that no longer mattered.
That night, I lay upon the four-poster bed with my back to the heavy oak door, the room swallowed in darkness. The brass lock turned with a soft, deliberate click. Footsteps crossed the imported marble—light, measured, yet carrying that familiar weight of intrusion I had learned to recognize in my bones.
"This place needs attending to."
Giorgio's voice cut through the silence.
I did not respond. The scent of him—sandalwood and old money, the cologne his mother had chosen for him since boyhood—once brought me comfort. Now it triggered something primal, a rejection that lived beneath conscious thought. I closed my eyes and feigned the stillness of sleep.