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No ceremony. No performance.

I step into it like armor.

Then I find and pull on one of the long oversized shirts of mine from another drawer—soft, black, worn thin at the edges because I’ve had it forever. I bypass all thebrand newclothes surrounding it purely because of Ruin’s words.

My bare legs protest every step with a satisfying ache. The hallway outside the bedroom is just as quiet, lined with sleek grey walls and dark wood trim, modern but cozy. Two doors stand closed across from me. One has the sound of a shower muffled but unmistakable.

Tempting.

God, it’s so fucking tempting to barge in, to catch one of them off-guard and ruin their carefully orchestrated mask of control. To get the answers before I have earned them. But I stop myself. That would feel like cheating. After everything they told me… their confessions, their truths—the faces and names still hidden—I won’t cheapen them.

If that’s one of their rooms, then logic says the second door belongs to the other.

My fingers twitch with curiosity, but I keep moving, further down the hall and into the heart of the house.

It’s massive. Open. Every line, every corner drenched in indulgence, like someone took my subconscious, wrung it out, and decorated with it. Black velvet furniture. Smoky gray walls. Blood-red accents. If I ever made a Pinterest board it would look exactly like this.

Of course it would.

They’ve studied me for years. Obsessed. Watched. They’ve been inside my mind, my records, my patterns. They probably know the exact brand of eyeliner I use and which of my bras I secretly think I look best in. So yeah. Of course they knew what kind of house I would love.

Of course they got it right.

Of course they built this world out of everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I never said aloud. It makes my stomach turn and twist and ache all at once.

I move through each room slowly, taking it all in. A sitting room with black silk curtains and a fireplace. A hidden nook with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a plush reading chair that practically begs to swallow me whole.

I wander through to the kitchen, fingers grazing the cool marble of the counter. The fridge is unnecessarily stocked. The shelves are arranged with a terrifying precision. The pantry is next—dark, deep, full of everything from imported oils to obscure spice blends. I’m halfway through opening one of the lower cabinets inside the pantry when—

“If you wanted a tour,” a voice murmurs behind me, lazy and low, “you could’ve just asked.”

I don’t jump. I don’t freeze. I turn slowly, already rolling my eyes because I don’t need to see him to know exactly who it is.

Rule.

There’s something in the way he speaks today—less edge, more velvet. It’s disarming. Infuriating.

“I didn’t realize snooping required an appointment,” I reply.

He leans against the doorframe like he owns the damn air in the room, mask still in place, modulated voice unmistakably amused. “Fair point.”

“I knew you’d come find me eventually,” I add, turning back to the pantry casually. “You two always do.”

He chuckles softly, the sound low and unhurried as his footsteps draw closer. “I was going to make you some more pastries.”

That gets my attention. I turn to face him again, raising a brow. “Cherry cream cheese?”

His mask tilts slightly in acknowledgment. “Of course.”

I shrug, pretending I’m not already imagining the buttery layers and sweet filling. “And here I thought you were going to punish me for wandering.”

He steps closer, hands tucked behind his back. “I still might.”

Then, softer—almost like a tease veiled in something more vulnerable—“But if you'd like to help make them… that would be even better.”

I narrow my eyes. “What, no threat? No forced compliance or bribes with caffeine this time?”

“You’re not bound,” he reminds me quietly. “You’re choosing.”