The bathroom was full of steam and the scent of lavender that wrapped around her like a suffocating embrace. Rose petals floating on water. Of course. Maria remembered everything. Every preference. Every detail. Every small thing that might make Miss Norah's life more comfortable.
Norah hated that she remembered. Hated the care that went into it. Hated feeling guilty for snapping at someone who was only doing her job.
Hated herself more for not being able to stop snapping.
She stripped off her silk pajamas—pale pink, another gift from someone trying to make her softer than she was—and let them fall to the floor. Didn't pick them up. That's what Maria was for, right? Picking up after her. Making everything perfect. Maintaining the illusion that this was a home instead of a prison with expensive furniture.
She sank into the water and let it scald her skin. Too hot. Maria always made it slightly too cool, and Norah always ran more hot water until it was almost unbearable. Pain was clarifying. Pain kept you sharp. Pain reminded you that you were real, that you had a body, that you weren't just floating through this life like a ghost in your own story.
She closed her eyes. Tried to breathe. Tried to find some kind of center.
You keep her breathing, her father had said last night. She'd heard it through the door—the study doors were thick but not soundproof, and she'd been standing in the hallway trying to decide whether to barge back in or leave. Watch her. Closely. She's...
And then he'd stopped. Whatever he'd been about to say, he'd swallowed it.
What did he know? What did he suspect?
Norah scrubbed at her skin with a loofah, harder than necessary. Turning it pink. Almost red. Watching the color bloom under her fingers like proof that she could still feel things, still affect things, still leave marks even if they were only on herself.
She washed her hair. Once. Twice. The shampoo smelled like coconuts and something else. Some flower she couldn't name. She'd never been good with flowers. Conditioner. Rinse. The water running from clear to cloudy with soap and shed skin and the invisible weight of everything she couldn't wash away.
She went through all the motions mechanically. Precisely. Like she was putting on armor. Because that's what it was—the perfect skin, the perfect hair, the perfect face that stared back at her from magazine covers and Instagram posts and her father's approving glances. All armor. All distraction. All carefully constructed lies about who she really was.
Nobody looked past pretty. That was the secret. That was the trick. Be beautiful enough and people stopped looking deeper. Be charming enough and they didn't ask questions. Be exactly what they expected and they never suspected you were anything else.
Velvet knew that. Velvet had taught her that.
She took her time. Thirty minutes. Forty. Until the water started to cool despite the hot tap she'd left running slightly. Until her fingers pruned and her skin felt raw and there was nothing left to wash except the thoughts in her head, and those never came clean.
Finally, she stood. Water sluiced off her body, rose petals clinging to her legs like small wounds. She wrapped herself in one of the towels—warm from the heated rack, soft enough to make her want to cry—and twisted another around her hair.
The robe came next. White terry cloth. Thick. Warm from the rack. She tied it tight around her waist, pulled it closed like she was closing herself off from the world. Slipped her feet into the slippers that Maria had positioned perfectly.
She took one more look at herself in the mirror. Face bare. Hair wet. Eyes that looked too young and too old at the same time.
Then she opened the bathroom door.
And froze.
Coy stood in the middle of her bedroom.
Just stood there. Like he had every right to be there. Like this was normal. Like her bedroom wasn't supposed to be her space, her sanctuary, her one place where the world wasn't allowed to intrude.
He was dressed all in black—black jeans that fit better than they should, black boots that looked tactical, black t-shirt that stretched across shoulders that had no business being that broad. His arms were crossed over his chest. His expression was unreadable—that neutral professional mask he wore like armor of his own. And he was staring at something on her dresser.
A photograph.
Her and her father from—God, years ago. Maybe when she was sixteen. Before London. Before everything changed. They were at some charity event, both dressed up, and she was actually smiling. Genuinely smiling. Like she believed that her father loved her more than he loved his empire. Like she still thought family meant something besides leverage and obligation.
She didn't remember who'd taken the photo. Didn't remember the event. Barely remembered the girl in the picture.
Norah's hand tightened on the bathroom doorframe. Her knuckles went white. "What the hell are you doing in my room?"
Coy turned slowly. Not startled. Not surprised. Like he'd heard her coming. Like he'd been waiting. "Morning."
"Get. Out." She bit off each word. Made them sharp. Made them weapons.
"Can't." He nodded toward the hallway door, casual, like they were discussing the weather. "Your father's orders. I'm supposed to escort you to campus."
"I'm not dressed." She was suddenly hyperaware of the robe, the damp hair, the fact that she was naked underneath and he was standing in her bedroom like that was normal.
"I can see that."