A facade, just like everything else.
Ellsworth appeared from the sitting room almost immediately, as if he'd been waiting. Probably had been. The man seemed to have a sixth sense for when people came and went. Former military intelligence, maybe. Or just naturally observant.
His eyes went to my face. The fresh stitches along my cheekbone.
"Where did you get that fixed?" he asked mildly, though I caught the faint note of disapproval underneath the politeness.
"Clinic around the corner."
Ellsworth's eyebrow lifted fractionally. "I can perform anything including minor surgery, Mr. Black. Next time, come home and I'll take care of it. Save you the trouble. And the exposure."
Right. Because walking into public clinics left trails. Created records. Made you visible in ways that could be exploited later.
I should have thought of that.
"Good to know."
Though, I wasn't sorry about the clinic.
Wasn't sorry about running into Ella.
Even if I should be.
Even if it complicated everything.
The paper in my pocket seemed to burn hotter, like it was trying to remind me she existed. Like I could forget. Like I hadn'tbeen thinking about nothing else since the moment she'd walked out of that café.
My stomach growled audibly, breaking the moment.
Ellsworth smiled faintly. "There's a fresh assortment from the boulangerie down the street in the kitchen. And a fresh stack of filets in the fridge, should you need them."
Of course, there was.
The man was efficient. Thorough. Probably ex-SAS or something equally competent.
"Thanks."
I headed for the kitchen before Ellsworth could ask any more questions. Before his knowing eyes could pick apart exactly what was bothering me.
The box of pastries sat on the counter—croissants, pain au chocolat, something with almonds I didn't recognize. I grabbed a kitchen towel, filled it with half the box, and headed upstairs to my room.
Away from Ellsworth's knowing looks.
Away from the possibility of conversation.
Away from having to explain things I didn't understand myself.
My room felt quiet. Clean. Untouched. Like no one lived here. Which, I supposed, was accurate. I existed here. I slept here. I used the space.
But I didn't live.
I hadn't lived anywhere in years.
I dropped the towel full of pastries on the bed and ate two immediately, barely tasting them. Just fuel. Just something to fill the hollow feeling in my chest that had nothing to do with actual hunger and everything to do with walking away from something I'd wanted.
Then I stripped down, tossing clothes in a pile by the door.
Did Ellsworth do laundry?
