Camille’s SuiteSteam curled zily from the open bathroom door as Camille stepped into the bedroom, the plush white robe draped loosely around her frame. The Lachn crest sat embroidered above her left breast, and she let the fabric fall open just enough to reveal the warm curve of her skin beneath while she crossed the room with unhurried grace, toweling the damp strands of her hair in slow, deliberate strokes.

  Her eyes found the wardrobe prepared for her alone. Deep silks in midnight hues hung beside heels cut precisely to her size and jewelry id out like quiet offerings on velvet trays. A faint smile curved her lips, almost appreciative.

  They want me comfortable, she thought. They want me softened. He especially understands that presentation is half the war.

  Her fingers traced the smooth wooden hanger of a midnight-blue silk dress, the fabric whispering against her palm as it unfolded. She held it to her body before the full-length mirror, tilting her head to study the way the color would cling to every line of her. The faintest smirk touched her mouth.

  Dinner with him. Not a negotiation. A measurement.

  She examined her reflection as though sizing up an opponent across a chessboard, weighing every possible move before the first piece fell.

  "Does he think me desperate… or dangerous?"

  The diamond earrings on the velvet tray caught the light. With practiced ease she lifted them, fastened the cold stones to her lobes, and let a soft, private ugh slip free.

  Only through wyers, she had told him earlier. True enough.

  But tonight’s settlement belonged neither to Xavier nor to her.

  Her gaze sharpened, bright and certain.

  It was his.

  She id the dress across the bed with meticulous care, then paused once more before the mirror. The woman who stared back remained perfectly calm, calcuting, and utterly composed.

  Ready.

  Savina’s SuiteThe bathwater had long since cooled when Savina finally pulled the stopper, though she had endured its depths for only a handful of minutes. Luxury never rexed her; it merely irritated the edges of her nerves.

  The shower had suited her far better—scalding, relentless, a steady punishment she could stand beneath without apology. Steam still clung to her bare skin as she stepped onto the cool tiles.

  She ignored the robe waiting neatly on its hook.

  Instead she dried off quickly and pulled on her own clothes: loose bck pants that moved with her, a faded tank that skimmed the lines of her torso, and simple sandals. Garments that still felt like armor she recognized.

  She dropped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, letting the heavy quiet press down until it became unbearable. Then she pushed herself upright and began to pace, restless energy tightening through her legs with every step.

  "Dinner. Just the two of them."

  Her jaw flexed.

  What is she doing? Camille Morvant does not simply talk things out. She maneuvers. And he? He never sits at any table unless he already knows exactly how the night will end.

  Her eyes flicked to the small table where a tray of fruit and cheese waited untouched. She shoved it aside; the dishes rattled sharply in the stillness.

  They would smile across winegsses, pretending politeness, pretending none of it was a calcuted advance.

  Her steps quickened across the polished floor.

  And she was expected to remain here like a courteous guest, as if she could not see the board beneath their feet.

  She reached the tall window and looked out over the darkened gardens, arms folding tightly across her chest.

  The estate y deceptively still.

  Too still.

  Watching.

  Savina scowled into the bck gss.

  This pce was a trap.

  Her eyes hardened with quiet resolve.

  And she would not let them leave it as prey.