The rain came down in sheets, turning the estate gardens into a grey blur. On the drive back from the memorial, Hunter had made a single, brief phone call, his voice low and clipped. The result was waiting for them when they arrived.

Herminia stood under the portico of the main house, gripping the doorframe. By afternoon, two movers were carting her boxes across the courtyard toward the East Wing.

"I'm not going," she said to the wet air.

Hunter appeared from the mist, holding a massive black umbrella. He walked up the steps, his shoes crunching on the wet stone.

"Don't make a scene," he said. "The movers are paid by the hour."

"You tricked Barbara," Herminia accused. "You manipulated her into sending me to your rooms."

"I protected you," Hunter corrected. "Or would you prefer Barbara inspecting your neck every morning?"

He stepped close to her and opened the umbrella, holding it over both of them. He created a small, dry world that only they existed in.

"Come on." He put a hand on the small of her back.

Herminia tried to step away, but the rain was a wall of water. She was forced to step into his space. He pulled her against his side, his arm clamping around her shoulders.

They walked into the rain. The sound of the water hitting the umbrella was deafening. Herminia could feel the heat radiating from his suit. His hip bumped against hers with every step. It was an intimacy she couldn't escape.

"Why the East Wing?" she asked, her voice tight.

"Better security," Hunter said. "Fewer eyes. No Barbara."

"It's a prison," she whispered.

"It's a sanctuary."

They reached the heavy double doors of the East Wing. Hunter collapsed the umbrella and handed it to a waiting staff member. The silence inside was instant and heavy. The air here was cooler, smelling of cedar and Hunter's cologne.

He led her up the grand staircase to the second floor. He pointed to a door.

"That's your room."

Then he pointed to the door directly next to it. "And that's mine."

Herminia looked at the proximity. Ten feet. That was all that separated them.

"Who cleans here?" she asked, looking around the empty hallway. "Where are the maids?"

"No staff allowed on this floor without my clearance," Hunter said. "Enola will handle your needs."

"Enola?" Herminia frowned. "My assistant?"

"She's capable," Hunter said with a strange smile. "Settle in. I'll see you at dinner."

He walked into his room and closed the door. Herminia stood alone in the hallway, listening to the rain hammer against the roof. She realized with a sinking feeling that she had just walked into the lion's den, and the lion had the only key.

Herminia sat on the edge of the king-sized bed in her new room. It was beautiful—cream and gold, with a view of the lake—but it felt sterile. Like a hotel room.

Enola was unpacking Herminia's clothes. Her movements were sharp, precise. Too precise.

"Enola," Herminia said. "I don't like it here. I want to go ask Barbara if I can move back."

Enola didn't stop hanging dresses. "Mr. Randolph insists you stay here, Miss."

"Since when do you call him Mr. Randolph?" Herminia asked. "You used to call him 'The Dictator' behind his back."

Enola turned. Her face was blank, her smile practiced. "People change. He signs the checks."

Herminia stood up. "I'm going to see Barbara."

She moved toward the door. Enola was there before she could take three steps. She moved with a speed that was unnatural for a personal assistant. She blocked the doorway, her stance wide, balanced.

"Mrs. Randolph is resting," Enola said. Her tone was polite, but her body language was threatening.

"You know martial arts?" Herminia asked, stepping back.

"Self-defense classes," Enola said smoothly. "To better protect you."

The door behind Enola opened. Hunter walked in. He was holding a dark blue silk scarf.

"What's the noise?" he asked.

"She wants to leave," Enola said, stepping aside.

Hunter walked into the room. He approached Herminia, holding out the scarf. "You left this in the study."

Herminia's breath hitched. It was her mother's scarf. The only thing she had left of her. She reached for it, but Hunter didn't let go. He looped it around her neck, using the silk to gently tilt her face toward him, a tether of soft luxury.

Enola quietly exited the room, closing the door with a soft click.

"You bought her," Herminia whispered, looking at the closed door. "You bought everyone."

"I hired professionals," Hunter corrected. He held the ends of the scarf, his knuckles grazing the silk, anchoring her in place. "Enola isn't just an assistant. She's your detail. You don't go anywhere without her."

"I'm a prisoner."

"You're safe," Hunter said. "Stop fighting me, Herminia. It's exhausting."

He released the scarf. "We're visiting Nana Rose tonight. Be ready at seven."

Herminia's heart jumped. Nana Rose. The old housekeeper who had practically raised her. She was the only person in this world who loved Herminia unconditionally.

"Nana is awake?"

"For now," Hunter said. "If you behave, you can see her."

He was dangling her love for Nana Rose like a carrot. It was cruel. It was effective.

"I'll be ready," she said quietly.

The air in the infirmary wing smelled of antiseptic and dying flowers.

Herminia sat by the bed, holding Nana Rose's frail, wrinkled hand. The old woman was paralyzed from a stroke, but her eyes were bright and wet. She squeezed Herminia's hand weakly.

"I missed you, Nana," Herminia whispered, resting her forehead against their joined hands.

Lana was in the corner, arranging fresh hydrangeas in a vase. She paused, sniffing the air. She frowned.

"Miss Herminia," Lana said. "What is that smell?"

Herminia froze. "What smell?"

"It's... minty. Strong," Lana said. She stepped closer. "That's Mr. Randolph's scent. The liniment he uses after polo. The whole west wing smells of it when he's used it."

Panic spiked in Herminia's chest. She had applied more of the ointment before coming down to soothe the ache on her neck.

"Oh," Herminia said, her mind racing. "I... I twisted my ankle. In the library. He saw me fall and gave me some."

She stood up, putting weight on her left foot and wincing theatrically.

Nana Rose made a distressed sound in her throat, trying to look at Herminia's legs.

"It's okay, Nana," Herminia soothed. "Just a sprain."

Lana narrowed her eyes. "I see. You should be more careful in the library, Miss."

Herminia felt sweat prickle her hairline. The lie hung in the air, heavy and awkward. Lana knew. Or she suspected. The look she gave Herminia wasn't one of a servant to a master; it was pity mixed with judgment.

"I should go," Herminia said, limping toward the door. "My foot hurts."

She walked out into the corridor, maintaining the fake limp. She passed Agatha, Barbara's secretary.

"Mrs. Randolph expects you at breakfast tomorrow," Agatha said without stopping, her eyes flicking to Herminia's limp. "Try not to be late."

Herminia fled back to the East Wing. She locked her door and leaned against it. She pulled her phone out.

A text message from Hunter lit up the screen.

Ankle? You're a terrible liar.

Herminia dropped the phone on the bed as if it had burned her. He was watching. He was always watching.