Cassie didn't sleep that night.
She stayed in the surveillance room long after the kiss ended, replaying the footage in slow motion.
Every twitch of Damien's jaw.
Every trembling breath from Diana.
By dawn, she knew exactly what she had to do.
It wasn't enough to tear them apart.
She had to make Damien doubt her.
Break the little thread of trust Diana had somehow stitched into him.
Her phone buzzed.
A single text from an unlisted number.
> The greenhouse. Tonight. Alone.
Cassie's smirk deepened.
Perfect.
---
Diana woke to an empty connecting room. Damien had already left.
She almost expected the key to be gone from her pillow.
It wasn't.
It sat there like a dare.
She wasn't stupid enough to think it meant freedom.
No — Damien didn't give without reason.
And whatever reason he had, she hadn't figured it out yet.
When she went downstairs for breakfast, the air felt… different.
The guards weren't watching her the same way.
They were tighter, more alert, like someone had whispered her name into a threat list.
Claiborne was there, pretending to sip coffee.
When Damien wasn't looking, he muttered under his breath, "Something's coming. Keep your head down."
She didn't ask questions.
Questions in this house got you answers you didn't survive.
---
Damien was in the study when she found him later, sleeves rolled up, tie discarded, his eyes shadowed from a night without sleep.
"You're restless," she said.
He didn't look up from the papers in front of him. "I'm busy."
"With what?"
His gaze flicked to hers, sharp. "Don't start."
She should've walked away.
But something in her—maybe the same thing that had made her kiss him—pushed forward.
"I found the drawer," she said quietly.
The pen in his hand stilled.
Slowly, he set it down.
"You went looking where you shouldn't."
"You left me the key."
"I left you a choice," he corrected. "And now you've made it."
She folded her arms. "It was Rhys, wasn't it? Your brother."
Something flickered in his eyes, fast and dangerous.
"You don't want to open that door, Diana."
"Too late," she said.
His chair scraped back as he stood.
In two steps he was in front of her, close enough for her to smell the faint trace of whiskey and something darker on his breath.
"You think you're ready to know me?" His voice was low, almost a growl.
"You can't even imagine what loving me costs."
Her pulse jumped.
"I'm not talking about love."
"Good."
He brushed past her—cold, dismissive—but she saw the way his hands curled into fists.
---
That night, a folded note slid under her door.
No name. No handwriting she recognized.
> If you want the truth, meet me in the greenhouse at midnight.
Her first thought was Damien.
Her second was that it was a trap.
Either way, she would go.