Isobel's POV
I woke to the sound of rain.
For a second I didn't know where I was. The ceiling above me was high, painted a soft cream. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar and something masculine — definitely not my apartment.
Étienne had said I'd be more comfortable here. Comfortable, my foot. I muttered under my breath.
I sat up slowly, wincing as my ribs complained. Someone had changed me into an oversized T-shirt. My head pulsed, and the bruise along my shoulder flamed when I moved too fast.
The room was beautiful and cold. No personal things — no photos, no books — only clean lines and expensive minimalism.
I pushed the blanket off and swung my feet to the floor. The tiles were cold under my toes. "Okay," I muttered. "I'm not a hostage. Just… a guest in a billionaire's mausoleum."
The door opened a crack and an older woman peeked in. Silver hair, kindly face.
"Oh, you're awake!" she said, smiling. "I was just coming to check on you."
"Hi," I said, awkward. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snoop."
She waved me off. "You're fine. I'm Marie, Mr. Étienne's housekeeper. He left instructions — make sure you eat and take your medicine."
Of course he had.
Marie entered with a tray: tea, toast, and a small bottle of pills. "Mr. Étienne made the tea. You gave everyone quite a scare," she said gently.
"He… he did? Why?" I stammered. Why would he make tea for me?
"Yes. He made one for himself and for you before leaving this morning. I warmed it. He was very clear about giving it to you."
"Is that his way of being nice?" I muttered, sitting back on the bed.
She chuckled. "You rest today, hmm? The doctor said to take it slow."
"I've been taking it slow my whole life," I said, forcing a smile. "It doesn't seem to help much."
Marie's eyes softened but she didn't pry. She set the tray down and drew the curtains just enough to let in a slant of light.
"Mr. Étienne will be back this evening," she said. "He mentioned you might want some air later. I can take you to the garden if you like."
"Garden?" I asked.
"You'll see."
After she left I sipped the tea. Perfect — a hint of lemon, no sugar — just the way Alexander used to make it.
I shoved the thought away.
By the time Étienne returned the rain had stopped. I'd showered and found my phone — twelve missed calls from Julien and a cracked screen. Figures.
I was sitting by the wide window when his voice came from behind me.
"You're not supposed to be walking around yet."
I turned. He stood in a dark suit, tie loosened, sleeves half-rolled. Tired without being worn out. "I got bored," I said. "Marie said fresh air helps recovery."
He crossed his arms. "Marie also said you nearly tripped on the stairs."
"She's a snitch."
He arched a brow. "She's concerned."
I stood. "I'm fine, Étienne. See? Fully functioning human."
He stepped closer. "You're pale."
"I'm always pale."
"Your bandages need changing."
"I already—"
He didn't wait. "Sit."
There was no room for argument, and I did.
He fetched a small medical kit from the side table like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. He knelt in front of me, hands steady as he loosened the wrap around my shoulder.
"You really don't have to—"
"Hold still."
The brush of his fingers was too careful, too practiced. I tried not to look at him, but it was hard not to notice how close he was.
He replaced the gauze, his touch light but firm. I could smell his cologne—clean, faintly woody. When he leaned back, our eyes met for a second.
"You're good at this," I said, trying to sound casual.
He smiled slightly. "Used to patch up my brother when we were kids."
"Must've been a reckless childhood."
"Something like that. Thank you for the tea today."
He stood, washed his hands, then nodded toward the table. "Dinner?"
I blinked. "You cook too?"
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I don't know, you just seem like the type who orders everything in French and gets it delivered."
He smirked. "I do that too."
Dinner was quiet at first. He'd made something simple—grilled salmon, rice, vegetables—clean flavors that smelled of lemon and herbs. It was the kind of meal that promised competence.
I poked at my plate. "You didn't poison this, right?"
"Not intentionally."
I smiled before I could stop myself.
Halfway through the meal, he said, "So, I love your work."
"Why?" I asked.
"It's raw and holds pain. It feels like a heartbreak story."
He was right. I poured my pain and guilt into my art.
My fork froze mid-air. "Yeah… it's, uh… about my ex."
"He died, right?" he asked.
I stopped, the bite of his question sharper than I expected. "How do you know about that?"
"Julien mentioned it," he said carefully. "Said you lost someone."
I stared at my plate. "I didn't lose him. He died. That's different."
He didn't answer. Silence stretched between us like something taut.
I forced a small laugh. "You know, I still dream about him sometimes. It's stupid. A year later and I still—" My voice broke.
Étienne's chair scraped back. He stood so fast I flinched.
"I need some air," he said, too quickly, and walked out before I could say anything else.
The sound of his footsteps faded down the hall.
I sat there for a long time, chest tight, feeling like I'd said the wrong thing and not knowing how to fix it.
I turned toward my room to lie down but something on the floor caught my eye. It was silver, gleaming faintly in the lamplight.
A cufflink.
I picked it up. It was engraved with a tiny pattern—crossed lines forming an A inside a circle.
I knew that symbol.