The dining room glittered like a jewel box. Chandeliers spilled light across a table set for royalty, silver cutlery catching every glint. Gustavo was in his element, his voice booming with anecdotes, laughter filling the crystal walls. He poured wine generously, savoring the role of host.
Anne sat poised beside him, her every gesture graceful. She smiled when Gustavo spoke, laughed softly at his stories, but Esteve noticed how often her gaze drifted—toward the windows, the night beyond, and once, toward him.
Esteve said little. He toyed with his glass, the wine dark and rich but leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. The room felt stifling, heavy with unspoken things.
When the servants cleared the plates, Anne rose lightly. "It's warm tonight," she said. "I think I'll take some air."
Her words were addressed to Gustavo, but her eyes flickered to Esteve.
Minutes later, he followed.
---
The veranda opened onto a garden washed in moonlight. Anne stood at the railing, the night breeze stirring her hair. She didn't turn when Esteve stepped onto the stone floor.
"I thought you'd stay inside," she said softly.
"I couldn't breathe in there," he replied.
She glanced back, studying him. The mask of the perfect fiancée slipped just enough for him to glimpse something raw—loneliness, perhaps, or longing.
"You don't like me," she said, not as a question.
Esteve hesitated. "I don't trust easily."
A faint smile curved her lips. "Neither do I."
They stood in silence for a moment, the air taut between them. Then Anne spoke again, her voice lower.
"Before Gustavo… before this life, I was someone else. I was wandering, trying to escape myself. Madrid, Florence, Lisbon… nights I can hardly remember."
Esteve's heart stuttered. Madrid. The word struck him like a hidden chord, resonant and dangerous. He searched her face, but she had turned away.
"I know that feeling," he said slowly. "Wanting to lose yourself for a night."
Her gaze flicked to him, sharp, curious. For a heartbeat, it felt as though they were both standing on the edge of recognition—yet neither dared to cross.
---
When Anne moved, it was sudden. She stepped past him, her perfume lingering as she crossed toward the far corner of the veranda. She pressed her hand against the stone wall, and with a faint click, a section shifted, revealing a narrow, shadowed doorway.
Esteve stared. "What is that?"
"Part of the house," Anne said, her tone unreadable. "Gustavo never told you?"
"No."
She stepped inside, half swallowed by the dark. Then she looked back at him. Her eyes shone strangely in the moonlight, full of challenge, of invitation.
"Some doors," she murmured, "aren't meant to stay locked."
The moment stretched. Esteve felt the weight of choice pressing on his chest, heavier than the mansion walls themselves. He should turn back. He should leave.
Instead, he followed her in.
The door clicked shut, leaving only shadows—and the sound of two hearts racing in the dark.