"I'll do it," I say quietly.
"Isabella—"
"You're right. They need someone with the expertise to verify it's real. And I have that expertise." I meet his gaze. “Besides, this is my research they weaponized. My work that's killing people. I should be the one to help stop it."
Something shifts in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or respect. "Then you'll need to look the part. Fit in with people with money, connections, resources to acquire weapons-grade compounds."
"I'm a scientist, not an actress."
"You're brilliant and adaptable." He hands me the dress. "And you've already had some experience with being someone else. This is just a different role."
He's right, but that doesn't make it easier. I take the dress, along with a tailored blazer and heels that Margot probably wore once and filed away.
The guest room is down the hall, but Remy stops me before I reach it.
"Use my room," he says. "Better mirror, more space. I'll wait."
His bedroom suite. The space he grew up in, became himself in, left behind when he joined the SEALs and never quite came back to.
I set the dress on the bed, slip out of Margot's borrowed sundress, and step into emerald silk.
The fabric slides over my skin like water. Expensive, beautifully cut, designed for a woman who understood power dynamics and how to use them.
The hidden zipper runs up my spine, and I reach back awkwardly, can't quite manage the angle.
"Remy?" I call through the door.
He enters, closes it behind him. For a moment, he just looks at me—dress half-zipped, hair falling loose over bare shoulders, standing in his bedroom wearing his mother's clothes.
"Turn around."
I obey without thinking. His fingers find the zipper, draw it up slowly. Each inch of closure feels deliberate, controlled, his knuckles brushing my spine with the kind of precision that suggests he's testing boundaries we established last night.
"This is a mistake," he says quietly, but his hands don't leave my back.
I turn to face him. "Is it?"
"Yes." He looks at my mouth, then lower, taking in the way the dress fits. "But I'm going to make it anyway."
The admission hangs between us. No pretense, no games. Just honest acknowledgment that we've been building to this since Prague and neither of us knows how to stop.
"Your family is downstairs," I point out.
"I know."
"They could hear us."
"Then you'll need to be quiet." His hand comes up, cups my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip. "Can you do that, Isabella?"
The challenge in his voice makes my breath catch. He's already taking control, already testing how far I'll let him go.
"Yes," I breathe.
"Good."
He kisses me then. Nothing gentle about it, nothing soft or exploratory. His mouth takes mine like a decision already made—hard, certain, one hand fisting in my hair to angle me exactly where he wants me. The other presses flat against the small of my back, pulling me flush against him until there's no space left between us, until I can feel every place his body meets mine.
It's claiming, consuming, and when his tongue strokes against mine I stop thinking entirely—just feel, just respond, heat pooling low and fast while my brain tries and fails to catch up.
