Tristan is nowhere to be found, which sends my mind spiraling through a thousand catastrophic possibilities. But letting my thoughts run wild won't help anyone. If Ewan had discovered us, I'd know. I'd be his opening act.
When I pass Ewan's study around noon, my heart nearly stops.
Tristan is stationed just outside the door—face blank, posture perfect. The ideal soldier.
Our eyes meet for half a second, and the look he gives me says everything his mouth can't.
It's late.Our flight leaves around ten tomorrow morning, though that's loosely set since Ewan will make the final call. He likes playing God with his pilots the way he does with everything else—adjusting schedules on a whim just to watch people scramble.
My bare feet are silent on the marble as I make my way toward the laundry room. A dress Ewan wants me to wear on the trip needs mending—a small tear along the hem. I noticed it an hour ago, and I have a few things that need washing before we leave.
The light is already on when I push through the door.
Lotte is standing at the folding table with a stack of white towels. Mid-fifties, short black hair, thin lips that have never curved into a smile in my direction. She decided she didn't like me the day I walked in with Ewan and has spent every interaction since confirming it.
She doesn't look up. "Mevrouw, you shouldn't be walking the halls this late. It's not appropriate."
She's the only one who calls me that.
"Last-minute trip prep." I hold up the dress. "Can you help me with this? There's a tear along the hem."
She glances over her shoulder—a look that takes in the dress, then me, then dismisses both.
"No, I can't. It's late, and the seamstress is gone for the night."
"Okay. No problem."
I turn toward the washing machines and hear her mutter something under her breath in Dutch. I don't catch all of it, but one phrase lands clearly.
Nutteloze hoer.
Useless whore.
The old version of me would swallow this. Tuck her chin and leave before the shaking in her hands became visible.
But that version didn't have a flight to New York tomorrow. Didn't have a man waiting in the shadows with an extraction plan. Didn't have a reason to remember she used to be someone who bit back.
"Wat zei je?"
What did you say?
Lotte's hands freeze on the towel. Her head turns, eyes narrowing at me.
She didn't know I spoke Dutch.
Nobody here does. There's a lot they don't know about me.
I switch back to English, keeping my voice cool. "You wouldn't want Mr. Calder to know how you speak to his wife."
She smooths down the last towel and places it gently on the stack.
"Mijn excuses, Mevrouw."
The apology is meaningless. She even delivers it with a dipped chin and doesn't meet my eyes again as she walks past me toward the door.
I stand there for a few seconds after she's gone—heart hammering. Half proud. Half terrified.
Because what if she goes straight to Ewan? What if that small act of spine costs me something I can't afford to lose?
