Power.
The towel goes around my shoulders. I catch my reflection one more time.
Theater training kicks in. I straighten my spine. Lift my chin. Become the character.
Confident. In control. Unbothered.
The door opens.
The house feels different in daylight. Sun streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, making patterns on expensive hardwood. Somewhere below, I hear the low murmur of voices. Dorian and Corvus discussing something.
My bare feet make no sound on the stairs.
My thigh muscles tremble—rejection sickness, not nerves. The fever spiked again after the revelation scene. My body punishing me for refusing what it needs.
Breathe through it. Performers work through worse. I played Medea with the flu sophomore year. I can walk down some stairs.
The kitchen archway appears on my left. I don't slow down. Don't adjust my pace.
Oakley's there. Pouring coffee. His back to me.
The mug slips from his hands before I've fully passed.
Ceramic explodes across tile. Dark liquid spreading like a crime scene. But I don't look. Don't stop. Just keep walking like I didn't hear the crash.
Like I don't hear his sharp intake of breath.
Behind me: "Jesus fucking—"
Then silence. Heavy. Loaded.
I turn the corner toward the living room.
Corvus sits in the leather chair by the window, tablet in hand. Reading something. Medical journal, probably. Or my genetic data. Who knows anymore.
He glances up as I pass the doorway.
The tablet hits the floor.
Not dropped—it slips from his hands like his fingers forgot how to work. Black screen cracking against marble.
He doesn't even look at it.
His eyes track me from head to toe and back again. Clinical precision failing. Calculating gaze going hot and hungry and almost desperate.
For once, he has nothing to say.
I keep walking. Toward the French doors that lead to the back terrace. Toward the pool beyond.
The doors are open. Summer air drifting in, carrying the scent of pine and lake water.
Dorian stands by the threshold. Glass of whiskey in hand. Staring out at the water like it holds answers.
My footsteps echo on the marble.
He turns.
Whatever he was about to say dies on his lips.
