The bathwater was too hot. Arianne let it be.

She had woken in Franz’s bed with his arm heavy across her waist and the sheets tangled at their feet. The lamp on his nightstand was still on—he had forgotten to turn it off, or hadn’t cared. The light fell across his face. He was still asleep. Breathing deep. Face slack in a way it never was when he was awake, when he was watching, when he was present in that particular way of his.

She had lain there for a moment. His arm. The warmth of him. The soreness already making itself known between her legs.

Then she had moved. Slowly. Lifting his arm, setting it back on the mattress. He stirred but didn’t wake. She crossed the hall to her own room. The floor was cold under her bare feet. The estate still held the chill of winter in its bones.

She ran the bath.

Now she sank into the heat and let the soreness register.

It was not the soreness of long abstinence. She knew that particular ache—had known it during the exile years, when her body was hers alone and she had almost forgotten what it felt like to be touched. She had gone months without thinking about it. Years, even.

This was different.

Deeper. Specific. The ache was located—she could trace it to the places his hands had been, his mouth, the weight of him pressing her into the mattress. Her body responding to him in ways it had never responded before. Not with Dominic. Only Franz.

She cataloged the sensation and moved on.

The bath did its work. Heat loosening muscles she hadn’t realized were tight. She washed her hair. Conditioned it. The routine was familiar—she had done it a thousand times. But this bathroom was hers now. The towels were the ones Aunt Estella had put there, thick and white, replaced weekly without comment. The soap was the kind she liked. The shelf held her things—not many, but enough.

She dried herself. Crossed to the closet.

The blouse was dark blue. Silk, like the scarf she would wear. The jacket was tailored, black, severe in a way that felt like armor. She dressed methodically. Underthings. Blouse. Skirt. Jacket. She left the scarf for last.

The mirror showed her what she already knew.

The marks were there. Red, fading to purple at the edges. Franz’s mouth had found her throat in the dark and stayed there. She remembered the feel of his teeth—not biting, just pressure. The sound he had made when she arched into him. The way his hand had tightened on her hip.

She had not stopped him. She had pulled him closer.

The scarf was silk. Deep blue, almost navy. Thin enough to breathe, thick enough to hide. She wrapped it once around her throat. Twice. Tucked the end into the collar of her blouse.

The marks disappeared.

She looked at herself. The woman in the mirror was composed. Professional. The Interim CEO of Rochefort Group. No one would see the evidence of last night.

She turned from the mirror and left the room.

Franz waited at the foot of the stairs.

He was dressed for the board meeting. Dark suit. No tie—he rarely wore one, and the board had stopped expecting it. His shirt was white, open at the collar. His hair was still damp from his own shower, curling slightly at the ends. He stood with his hands in his pockets, weight on one foot, patient.

He looked up when he heard her footsteps.

She descended. Her hand on the banister. The scarf moving against her throat with each step.

He noticed.

His eyes went to the silk. Then to her face. He didn’t smile—not quite. But something in his expression changed. A warmth. A knowing. The memory of his mouth on her skin, now hidden beneath blue silk, visible only to him because he had put it there.

He didn’t speak until she reached the bottom.

"You’re wearing a scarf."

"It’s early spring."

"It’s not that cold."

She stopped on the last step. They were eye to eye now. His hands were still in his pockets. Hers were at her sides.

"The scarf suits you," he said.

"Sam would agree."

"Sam would take credit."

A beat of silence. Not empty. Full.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

Franz wondered if he went overboard last night.

She knew what he meant. The marks. The soreness. The evidence of last night that she was carrying beneath her clothes.

"No," she said. "I can feel it. But it doesn’t hurt."

His jaw moved. He was holding something back—words, or the impulse to reach for her, to pull the scarf aside and see what he had done. He stayed still.

"I’m not sorry," he said.

"I know."

They walked to the front door together. He held it for her. The morning air was cool, damp, the smell of wet earth and new growth. Early spring. The drive to the office would take twenty minutes. The board meeting would start in forty.

He opened the car door for her. She got in. He circled to the driver’s side and started the engine.

The scarf stayed in place.

The drive was quiet.

Not the silence of distance. The silence of two people who had said what mattered and didn’t need to fill the space with anything else. Franz drove with one hand on the wheel. The other rested on his thigh. Arianne watched the city pass—the bare trees, the wet streets, the first green pushing through the soil.

"You defended me once," Franz said.

She looked at him.

"When I was eight. The water bottle." His eyes stayed on the road. "You didn’t stay. You intervened and left. I understood why. But I always wondered what it would feel like to have you stay."

She said nothing. But her hand crossed the space between them and rested on his forearm. Brief. A press of her fingers. Then gone.