The paranoia is a comfort—better to expect disaster than be surprised by it.
I lean over the sink, bracing myself against the cold porcelain, and stare into my own eyes until the tremor in my hands stops.
Then I practice, just once, what I would say if Ruairí walked through the door at this moment.
"There's something I need to tell you."
I try it again, this time with the proper intonation, as if it's an ordinary admission, like a gambling debt or a broken window.
I imagine his face—bored, then alert, then alarmed.
The way he would close the distance, never raisinghis voice, never letting the threat show unless it was tactical.
I try to picture the next step, the argument or the threat or the promise of protection that would follow, and I can't.
The simulation always ends with silence or with Ruairí's hand on my shoulder, squeezing too tightly.
I want to cry, but I don't.
Instead, I open the tap and let the cold water run over my wrists until my skin goes numb and the urge passes.
The mirror offers no judgment, just the fact of my existence, multiplied by the wet gleam of tears I will not shed.
After, I dress in layers—camisole, blouse, cardigan, scarf.
I want the armor, even if it's just cotton.
The weight steadies me.
I go back to the desk, pull out the notebook, and update the page with the new information.
—Vendor—replaced, no warning.
—Tattoo—red star, left wrist, possible Syndicate.
—Behavior—trained, not local.
I add a line to the map of the house, noting the sightline from the loading bay to the back stairs.
If someone wanted to track my movement, this is the route they would take.
I wonder if the man will be back or if this was just a test run—an audition, maybe, for the job of watching me up close.
Lunch is a performance.
I make a plate of cold meats and salad, skip the bread and cheese, drink two glasses of water and pretend to enjoy them.
The kitchen staff are subdued, glancing at me with a new wariness, as if I might report them for the sin of existing.
I want to reassure them, but the best thing I can do is act like nothing has changed.
That is the rule of survival in this house—never let anyone know what you're actually thinking.
After lunch, the symptoms return with a vengeance.
My breasts ache, tender and hot, and the nausea comes in pulses, each stronger than the last.
I grip the edge of thetable, knuckles blanching, and ride it out.
