Catherine called Duncan Wesley, Alexander’s assistant. If someone could locate Bernice quickly, it could be him. He had all sorts of connections.

"Mr. Wesley," she said, her voice shifting instantly, smooth and composed despite the urgency beneath it. "I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need a location trace on Bernice Watson. She left the Remington estate in Meridon about an hour ago. I need her location immediately."

There was no hesitation on the other end.

"Is this related to your research, Miss Preston?" Duncan asked.

Relief flickered through her.

"Yes," she replied. "Jonathan Vale might act. Possibly Dorian Blackwood as well. I can contact Alexander if—"

"That won’t be necessary, Miss," Duncan cut in, still polite, but quicker now. "I’ll handle it."

The line ended shortly after.

Catherine stared at her phone for a moment, faintly puzzled by the speed of his response, but she let it go. Perhaps Alexander was occupied. Perhaps this was simply being handled efficiently.

Still... A small crease formed between her brows.

Alexander hadn’t called her all day.

That was unusual.

Maximilian’s hand settled on her shoulder, warm and reassuring, and she leaned into him without thinking, letting the contact steady her. He knew Sebastian could be faster when it came to this, but he was not in a state to look into it.

He didn’t peg Sebastian for someone who would ruin himself with alcohol when it came to romantic troubles. That man used to handle it all with grace even when he was bullied to almost death, and never strayed.

"Something’s not right," Catherine murmured. "Can you check on Dorian and what he’s doing?"

She didn’t need to ask. But she did anyway.

Maximilian let out a quiet chuckle, more at her than at the situation, as though amused by the way she still made space for him even when her mind was racing ahead. He was sure Dorian would be more or less occupied with Charlotte, and maybe seething that Catherine was not answering him. But he would check, nonetheless.

"Should we leave for Meridon tonight?" he asked.

They had planned for tomorrow. But tomorrow felt too far away now.

Catherine looked at him, her hesitation brief. "Maybe," she said.

That was enough. Rather than being miles away and getting worried, it would be better to be there, and handle it in person.

They moved almost in sync after that; he packing with quiet efficiency, she preparing without wasted motion, both adjusting seamlessly to the shift in urgency. She had already informed the staff to prepare her jet for take-off.

Catherine paused, watching him for a moment as he folded his clothes, her thoughts momentarily drifting somewhere softer, quieter.

"Maybe..." she began, then hesitated.

Maximilian glanced up.

"Leave something here," she said.

For a second, he simply looked at her.

There was something unspoken in that request. Something that wasn’t about convenience at all.

A step forward. A quiet claim.

She noticed the look and immediately shook her head, pointing at the trousers in his hand. He was so into dressing like a professor even here. Woolen trousers were not needed for the temperature here. "Not those," she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "I’ll get you something more... appropriate, like jeans for here. Leave... Maybe just your sleepwear."

The tension softened instantly.

Maximilian’s smile lingered—slow, knowing—because he understood far more than she had said aloud. And he didn’t mind it at all.

"I don’t own a pair of jeans," he said casually.

Catherine blinked at him, genuinely caught off guard. "No way. Not even one?"

There was something almost scandalized in her tone, as though she had just discovered a fundamental flaw in his existence.

Maximilian let out a soft chuckle at her expression. "What’s with that look?" he asked. "I didn’t see you wearing one either."

Catherine’s lips curved, a spark of mischief returning to her eyes. Without another word, she caught his wrist and pulled him toward her closet. The space opened up like a boutique, organized with almost obsessive precision, and when she slid one section open, an entire row of denim revealed itself—shades arranged from light to dark, crisp and deliberate.

She raised her brows in silent triumph.

Maximilian glanced at it, unimpressed in the most deliberate way. "My statement still stands," he said. "I’ve never seen you wear one."

Catherine shrugged lightly, though her gaze softened just a fraction. "Maybe one day... when we go horse riding."

The thought settled between them, quieter than before, but deeper.

She could already imagine it... the open fields, the wind rushing past, the rhythm of hooves steady beneath her. It had always been her way of clearing her mind, of grounding herself when everything felt too much.

And somehow... she wanted him there with her.

"Remember when we used to ride together?" she asked, her voice softer now.

Back then, there had always been distance forced upon them—guards trailing behind, watchful eyes ensuring propriety under the guise of protection. Even in those fleeting moments of freedom, they had never truly been alone.

Maximilian’s expression warmed faintly. "You always loved horses."

"I still do."

Something quiet passed between them—something that belonged to another life, yet lingered here, woven into who they were now.

His gaze shifted, turning playful again as he stepped closer to the rest of her wardrobe. "And what else are you hiding here?" he asked, already reaching for one of the drawers.

"Don’t—" Catherine moved quickly, her tone sharper this time, but he paused mid-motion, glancing at her.

"Why?" he asked, though there was already a hint of amusement in his eyes.

She folded her arms, lifting her chin slightly. "Because my bra is in there," she said plainly. "And I’d rather you not faint from shock again."

Maximilian exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head, as he remembered the night of the Winthorp dinner. "I wasn’t shocked because of that," he replied. "I didn’t expect to see you... naked at all that night."

Catherine smirked, clearly unconvinced, or perhaps just unwilling to let him have the last word. "Oh? I thought I was so terrifying or deformed that you—"

She didn’t get to finish.

In one smooth motion, he closed the distance between them.

His hand caught the edge of her sleeve—and before she could react, he tugged it down. The silk gave way easily, slipping from her shoulders with a soft, fluid motion, pooling at her feet like liquid light.

Catherine’s breath hitched.

Not from shock... but from the way he looked at her.

There was no hesitation in his gaze now. No restraint. Just a quiet, unmistakable hunger that made her pulse quicken under his attention.

The next moment, she was lifted effortlessly, her back meeting the wall as his lips found hers.

The kiss deepened almost instantly, the earlier tension returning with a force that stole the air from her lungs. Her fingers curled against him, instinctively pulling him closer, as though distance itself had become unbearable.

For a moment, the world narrowed to nothing but warmth, breath, and the steady rhythm of something building between them.

Catherine, still panting, stopped him. "I think we should stop here now..."

Maximilian exhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling a little heavier than before, but he let her go—reluctantly, his hands lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

Then he nodded.... reluctantly.

Then... her phone rang.

The sound cut through everything.

Catherine pressed a soft kiss on his lips, her breath uneven as she pressed her forehead briefly against his. "I need to take this," she murmured.

"I know," he kissed her forehead.

Catherine grabbed her phone, steadying herself as she answered.

"Mr. Wesley?"

"A white van kidnapped Bernice Watson five minutes ago," came the immediate reply. "I’m tracking road cameras. We’re trying to locate her."

The warmth drained from Catherine’s face.

Her fingers tightened around the phone.

"We need to leave," she said, her voice sharp now, all softness gone. "Now."

Maximilian didn’t hesitate.

He simply nodded.