The following morning arrived slower than the city itself. Sunlight bled across the apartment's wide windows, throwing sharp lines of brightness onto the hardwood floors. Damien was already awake, stationed in the living room as if he had never slept. His jacket was abandoned on the couch, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, papers scattered around him in a kind of ordered disarray.
When Maya emerged from her room, still wearing the unease of the previous night, his head lifted at once. His expression didn't soften, though there was a flicker of something close to recognition in his eyes -- as though he had been expecting her hesitation.
"Good morning, Isla," he greeted smoothly, the false name slipping from his mouth as if it belonged to her in truth.
Maya hesitated, blinking once before answering. "Morning," she said at last, the word caught between her own identity and the one she had been forced to inhabit.
He studied her carefully, then set his papers aside and rose. "We're leaving today."
Her brows pulled together. "Leaving? Where?"
"You've been rehearsing in safe spaces -- here, with me. Controlled. Predictable. But Isla Harrington isn't confined to four walls. She exists in the world, and if you want anyone to believe in her, you must take her there."
Maya folded her arms, her instinct always to resist when she felt cornered. "So public humiliation is the next step?"
His mouth curved faintly, no more than the ghost of a smile. "Not humiliation," he corrected. "Exposure."
By noon, she sat in the back of his car, the city blurring past the tinted glass. Damien hadn't offered specifics, only instructions: dress the part, hold herself like Isla, prepare for strangers' eyes. He had chosen her attire -- an understated cream blouse, tailored dark trousers, flats polished enough to whisper quiet wealth. On the outside, she looked the part. Inside, her nerves clashed against her ribs.
The car stopped outside a gallery. One of those glass-front establishments where silence lived heavier than sound, where every step seemed to echo judgment. Damien stepped out first, his presence filling the space around him as naturally as air. He held the door open for her, his hand brushing lightly against her back.
"Remember," he murmured close enough for only her to hear, "every eye inside could be someone who matters."
The reminder sent a shiver along her spine.
Inside, the air was crisp with varnish and stillness. Expensive shoes clicked faintly against marble floors. Patrons moved with the unhurried assurance of people accustomed to belonging. Damien's stride was effortless, his posture commanding, and Maya followed, mimicking a grace she did not feel. Isla would glide. Isla would not second-guess the weight of her footsteps.
A gallery guide approached, her smile warm, her words practiced. "Mr. Cross, good to see you again." Then her attention turned politely toward Maya. "And this must be…?"
Maya froze.
Her mind scrambled for Isla's rehearsed details -- summer estates, travel anecdotes, family connections. The name Maya pressed hotly against her throat, desperate to escape.
Before she could falter further, Damien's voice cut in, smooth and firm. "This is Isla Harrington," he said with perfect ease, his fingers brushing hers as though to anchor her. "She was just telling me about her summers in Tuscany."
Tuscany. Not Paris. Not Rome. Tuscany.
"Yes," Maya echoed quickly, clinging to the prompt, "the light there is… different."
The guide's smile widened with approval, as if the words themselves confirmed her pedigree. Damien's gaze flicked toward Maya, sharp but touched with the faintest thread of amusement.
They drifted from room to room, Damien speaking sparingly, Maya trying to hold her body in borrowed elegance. Her nerves betrayed her in the clench of her hands, the stiffness in her shoulders. At one point, Damien leaned close, his breath warm against her ear.
"Stop gripping your hands. You look like you're awaiting execution."
"I'm trying," she whispered back.
"Trying isn't enough," he replied. "Isla doesn't try. Isla simply is."
The words stung more because they carried truth.
In front of a massive canvas awash in blues and golds, Maya faltered again. Searching for something Isla might say, she blurted instead, "It looks like wanting something you can't have."
Damien's head turned sharply. His gaze lingered on her, not the art. It wasn't amusement this time -- it was study, a dissection, as if she had revealed a corner of herself he hadn't expected. His voice lowered, quiet, unreadable.
"Interesting," he said at last.
By late afternoon, the edges of her composure had begun to fray. Pretending every breath, every syllable, weighed heavier than she could bear. Damien noticed the slip before she even spoke.
"Enough for today," he said as they stepped outside, sunlight washing them in honest brightness. "You're unraveling."
Maya let out a dry laugh. "Thanks for the pep talk."
He opened the car door, waiting for her to settle before sliding in after. "Do you want honesty or comfort?"
"Both," she muttered.
"You're better than yesterday," he conceded, "but you keep slipping. Not because you don't know the lines -- but because you don't believe them. You can't just recite Isla. You have to breathe her."
She leaned back, eyes closing briefly. "And how exactly am I supposed to do that?"
Silence stretched, heavy and deliberate. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her, gaze steady, unreadable.
"We make it real," he said finally.
That night, Maya lingered longer at the mirror than usual, brushing her hair with slow, deliberate strokes. Damien's words replayed with every pass of the brush. Make it real. He hadn't explained, but she understood enough to feel the shift in the ground beneath her.
The gallery had shown her one thing: she was no longer just pretending. Every slip, every near-mistake, was a thread pulling Isla and Maya closer together. Too close.
And Damien -- steady, relentless Damien -- was tightening the knot.
The rehearsal was ending. Something else was beginning. Something far more dangerous.
And Maya wasn't sure if she wanted to escape it anymore.