"Dr. Volkova…" Tom Hanley started cautiously, trying to crack the suffocating quiet with something—anything. "So my boss… she's really going to live here from now on?"
Ginevra nodded.
"And you… you don't mind?" Tom asked, watching her face as if the truth might ripple across it.
"I don't mind," Ginevra answered.
Tom still couldn't read her. Dr. Volkova's expression barely shifted—so controlled it was almost unreal. A strange, absurd thought flashed through him: if he shoved her into the entertainment industry, she'd ruin people. The fans would worship her. Her "expression management" alone would crush half the stars he knew… including his own boss, by a hundred miles.
Ginevra glanced at Tom's restless eyes and his constant scanning of the room, and spoke with quiet directness.
"What does she like?"
The question landed softly, but it carried weight. As if Ginevra wanted to prepare—wanted to make space for Jayna before Jayna even arrived with her things. The thought warmed her face almost imperceptibly, smoothing something tight in her features.
She likes you, Tom thought immediately.
He did not say it.
He enjoyed being alive.
"Jayna is picky about… basically everything," Tom began, unloading years of assistant notes like he was reading from an invisible clipboard.
"For example?" Ginevra asked.
She was listening. Truly listening. As if she would store each detail somewhere careful, somewhere private.
Tom took a breath and started with the daily habits. "She's obsessed with her hair. That's why she signed on as the face of Chaemante's hair oil—she takes care of it every single day. And her skincare is the same. She only uses the line she endorses—Pure Devotion, also by Chaemante. She's the regional ambassador now."
Ginevra's gaze lowered slightly as she began to memorize.
Tom continued, earnest. "Her skin runs dry, so she always uses the moisturizing version. She does a bubble bath every week—only cherry blossom scent. She says other scents make her feel nauseous."
He paused, then added the one that always gave him a headache. "And her eating… she's extremely picky. A lot of chefs can't cook what she likes. Most of the time she doesn't take more than a few bites."
"So that's why she's so thin," Ginevra murmured, the sentence almost to herself.
Her brows drew together in something like displeasure. Pickiness wasn't a virtue. And now, remembering how light Jayna had felt in her arms—the startling thinness beneath silk—Ginevra's jaw tightened.
Tom scratched the back of his head. "She's not the kind of star who starves herself on purpose, usually. But recently she's been sculpting for a role—gym every day for a while."
"Eating that little and still training," Ginevra said, her tone sharpening, "where does she get the strength?"
Tom sighed. It was hopeless. No one dared lecture Jayna—no one wanted to be burned alive by that temper.
But maybe now there was someone who could.
The thought made Tom's eyes brighten with sudden, wicked hope. He leaned forward like a child about to tattle.
"Dr. Volkova," he said eagerly, "do you want to hear some of her bad habits? She has a lot. A lot a lot. We tell her and she doesn't care at all."
Ginevra's attention sharpened. "Go on."
Tom switched into full-report mode. "She doesn't like proper meals, but she loves snacks—late-night food—fried chicken. And she can't live without spice. She stays up late all the time. Sophie, her makeup artist, has to cover her dark circles every shoot. She likes to sleep in. She drinks alone when she's upset, and—"
"And what else?" a voice said coolly from behind him.
Tom's blood turned to ice.
He snapped his mouth shut so fast it nearly hurt.
Jayna Stevens stood there, hair slightly damp from the bathroom, eyes bright and dangerous. Her gaze slid over Tom like the edge of a blade.
"Tom," she said, sweetly enough to terrify him, "I treat you pretty well, don't I? What is it—have you developed an addiction to talking trash about me?"
Her hand twitched as if she wanted to grab his ear on instinct, but then her eyes flicked to Ginevra sitting nearby.
Jayna inhaled, forced herself into restraint.
Giny is here. Be a lady. Be a lady.
Tom gave a weak, shaky laugh. "Boss… Dr. Volkova is family, right? I mean—she's one of us…"
Jayna narrowed her eyes, then—because Tom had at least learned how to speak—she let it go.
She waved him toward the door and hurried him along in a low voice, pushing him with both hands like she couldn't wait to get him out of the room.
At the doorway, she leaned in and whispered, "Don't forget the pajamas in the bottom of the wardrobe. The ones. You know."
Tom lifted a hand and made an obedient OK sign, soul leaving his body.
"And for now," Jayna added, voice dropping even lower, "don't tell anyone I'm living here. Give me a couple days. I'm off for three days anyway. If anything comes up, contact me."
Tom nodded hard. "Don't worry. I'm discreet. Also… maybe don't drive your car for a bit. Some paparazzi know your plate. We could use mine—"
"Fine," Jayna said, then paused as another thought struck her. "You know where my car keys are. Drive mine occasionally—circle around. See if anyone's sniffing."
Then she grabbed Tom's head lightly and murmured into his ear, "And tell Beau I said hi."
Beau Sawyer—fox-faced and infuriating—had done something right for once. Pure accident, sure. But still.
Somewhere in a hotel room, Beau—hungover and half-dead—shivered violently and muttered into his pillow, "Who the hell is cursing me…"
Jayna shut the door behind Tom and turned.
Ginevra was pulling on her coat.
"You're going out?" Jayna asked, forgetting entirely that this was her first day in someone else's home—as if she'd been here forever, as if she belonged.
Ginevra nodded, smoothing the front of her gray-blue wool coat.
Jayna watched her with a hunger that wasn't only physical.
Ginevra's outfit was simple—white knit beneath a knee-length coat—but everything about her looked deliberate, composed, quietly devastating. Her hair wasn't in the old high ponytail anymore. It was gathered low at the nape of her neck, loosely swept behind her ear, falling in a natural line over her shoulder.
Her black hair was soft. Too soft.
Jayna wanted to touch it. Wanted to run her fingers through it and ruin that careful neatness, just to see what Ginevra would look like undone.
Everything about her was restrained—almost ascetic.
And that restraint invited the mind to wander.
"Where are you going?" Jayna asked, smiling. "Can you take me with you?"
She'd taken three days off—rare, precious—never expecting the world to hand her Ginevra like this. God's strange mercy.
Now she wanted to cling. To savor every minute. To hoard time.
She wanted to be with her so badly that the thought became ridiculous—Jayna imagined shrinking herself into something tiny, slipping into Ginevra's chest pocket, living there where their hearts could bump together whenever Ginevra breathed.
She wanted to stick to her. Yes. She wanted it—desperately.
But she couldn't throw all of that onto Ginevra at once.
Ginevra was self-controlled, disciplined, careful. If Jayna moved too fast, she might startle her into retreat.
Ginevra's gaze dropped, practical as ever. "You don't have clothes here."
Jayna followed her into the walk-in closet, lips curving. "Dummy," she said softly, amused. "You think I go out dressed up every time? That's basically a sign saying, 'Hi, I'm Jaynara Stevens, please photograph me.'"
Ginevra let out a small laugh—quiet, involuntary.
And that sound lit warmth in Jayna's chest like a candle.
Ginevra lowered her eyes again, and for a moment her expression turned far away, as if she was fighting the urge to question reality itself. She had missed Jayna too much. Too fiercely. And now Jayna was here—standing in her closet like she belonged to the space, like she belonged to her.
It felt like a dream that would punish her the moment she believed in it.
If this was a sweet lie, Ginevra thought, then let me never wake up. Let me hypnotize myself into it. Forever.
Jayna sensed something shift.
Her smile vanished. She stepped closer and, because Ginevra's head was bowed, Jayna couldn't see her eyes—so she cupped Ginevra's face gently, careful as if holding porcelain.
"What's wrong?" Jayna asked, voice soft with worry. "Are you feeling unwell?"
Ginevra's lips moved as if the words were difficult. "You're… real."
Her gaze lifted at last—uncertain, trembling with disbelief.
Jayna stared into those damp, doe-like eyes, and something feral pulsed through her.
God.
She wanted to kiss her—right now—wanted to press her into the nearest surface and make her tremble and cry and beg, wanted to be cruel in the way desire could be cruel.
And she knew—she knew—if she did, she'd be thrown out of this house before her lips even cooled.
Jayna inhaled sharply, forcing her body to obey her mind.
Then—because she was Jayna, because she couldn't resist—
She took Ginevra's hand and pressed it to her chest, over her heart.
Soft warmth beneath fabric. Intimate. Deliberate.
Her eyes, however, were utterly sincere.
"Can you feel it?" Jayna asked quietly. "Do I feel real?"
Ginevra tried to pull her hand back.
Jayna held it there.
Ginevra's breath hitched. Her face tightened with embarrassment—because Jayna had placed her hand somewhere too private to ignore. Jayna wasn't wearing a bra; the loose dark sleepwear hid it at a glance, but touch made the truth unmistakable.
The composure Ginevra had worn for two decades—the cold, unbreakable mask—began to flush, slowly, betrayal spreading across her cheeks.
The last time she'd blushed like this had been eleven years ago.
"…Enough," Ginevra said hoarsely. "I can feel it."
Jayna watched that creeping redness and smiled—small, satisfied, unbearably tender.
Still the same, she thought. Still so easy to fluster.
Jayna tilted her head up and looked at Ginevra through misted lashes, all softness and invitation, and it gave Ginevra the most dangerous illusion—
As if Jayna wanted her to do something.
Something indecent.
Something that would destroy them.
Their backs were to the bed.
Ginevra's pulse thudded, heavy and slow, like an animal waking.
The distance between their mouths was no more than a finger's width. Ginevra's mind produced a vivid, treacherous thought: one small bite, and Jayna's lips would bruise red and swollen. Would they taste like strawberries—sweet, spilling juice?
As if possessed, Ginevra lifted a cool fingertip and touched Jayna's lips.
She stroked them lightly, as though learning their shape.
Jayna startled—just for a second.
Her breath caught, eyes widening as if she truly believed Ginevra might lower her head and kiss her hard enough to make her cry.
Ginevra felt the violent urge to do exactly that.
To make Jayna cry. To keep her. To mark her with proof.
The urge frightened her.
She pulled it back with the last shred of restraint and whispered, almost to herself, "I can feel it."
Jayna's mouth curved, amused, as if she'd understood everything Ginevra refused to say.
"Then," Jayna murmured, voice silk, "can I feel you too?"
Ginevra's expression snapped back into cold discipline. She yanked her hand free, stiff, and shot Jayna a sharp glance.
"Do you ever feel ashamed when you say things like that?"
Jayna lifted her brows, delighted. "You used to say that to me all the time."
Ginevra ignored her and began choosing clothes.
Jayna followed her every movement with eyes full of devotion—and something darker, something heated. Ginevra didn't notice.
Jayna was already imagining days ahead: small errands, slow mornings, ordinary moments turned intimate by repetition. Making up for eleven years, minute by minute, as if time could be rewoven.
She knew Ginevra's gentleness. She knew Ginevra's silence. Jayna would be the one to step forward, to offer the truths Ginevra wanted but wouldn't ask for.
Later.
Slowly.
"I want to wear something athletic," Jayna said, settling into her cover plan. "If I'm going to disguise myself, sportswear is best."
She'd done it plenty—tracksuit, sunglasses, hat pulled low. No one noticed.
Ginevra handed her a clean navy velvet tracksuit. "The pants might be a little long on you."
Jayna puffed her cheeks. "Ugh. Yes, yes—I know you're taller than me by three centimeters."
But she took the clothes eagerly anyway.
And when she lifted them to her face, she caught the faint scent of Ginevra on the fabric, and her heart softened into something almost childish.
Ginevra hesitated, then added an extra coat. If Jayna wore only that, she'd get cold.
They stood there in the bedroom, quiet except for the soft rustle of clothing. Jayna's gaze turned openly suggestive, her smile wicked.
"Giny," she said, "I'm going to change. I don't mind if you see me naked. My body's pretty great, you know."
Ginevra moved instantly toward the door.
If she stayed one more second, she would tear Jayna apart with her hands.
"Hey—!" Jayna reached out to stop her.
But her slender fingers didn't catch Ginevra's wrist.
Instead—by some cursed, impossibly precise accident—
They hooked the thin strap at the back of Ginevra's bra.
The air froze.
Jayna felt her soul leave her body.
Somewhere in her head, an alarm started screaming. She didn't need to imagine Ginevra's face—she knew. That cold, lethal stillness.
"I—I didn't mean to," Jayna blurted, panic sharpening her voice. She swallowed hard, eyes darting everywhere except Ginevra.
And then—because the universe apparently hated her—
Her fingers tugged just enough to loosen the clasp.
It slipped.
Unfastened.
A soft, awful little give of fabric.
Warning—warning—warning—
Jayna stumbled back, almost tripping over herself.
Ginevra turned.
And when Jayna met her eyes, she saw it: the look of a predator, calm and cruel, finally awake.
"I really didn't mean it," Jayna rushed out, hands up as if surrender could save her. "I don't know why it—why it came undone—I swear it wasn't—"
Ginevra stepped forward.
Jayna stepped back.
Ginevra stepped again.
Jayna retreated again, until the edge of the bed pressed against the back of her knees. One more step and she would fall onto it.
"This is the first day," Ginevra said, voice low, cool, smooth as glass. "And you're already undressing me."
"No—no!" Jayna stammered, tongue tangling, eyes rimming red from sheer fright and humiliation. "It was an accident. I was just trying to—"
Ginevra's gaze pinned her in place, watching every tremor in her expression, every flicker of fear.
And then she made a single sound—one soft syllable, dangerously intimate.
"Hmm?"
Jayna's throat bobbed. "I was just trying to stop you from leaving and then it… happened."
Ginevra didn't move to refasten the clasp.
She didn't hide.
The fact of her—her pale throat, the clean lines of her collarbone—was there, exposed like a quiet provocation.
Jayna couldn't stop her eyes from dropping.
And then Ginevra leaned in, lowering her mouth to Jayna's ear.
Her voice brushed Jayna's skin like fire.
"So," Ginevra murmured, "you don't plan to take responsibility for what you did?"
Jayna's body went rigid.
"R-responsibility for what?" she whispered, too afraid to turn her head.
She suddenly understood, in a way that made her breath thin and trembling—
Giny is terrifying.
Ginevra's breath warmed her ear. It kept getting closer, slower, deliberate enough to feel like a sentence being spoken without words.
Jayna felt as if she were being lowered gently into danger.
Ginevra lifted a hand and swept Jayna's loose bangs away from her forehead, fingertips barely grazing skin.
Jayna couldn't refuse that touch.
She didn't even know what came next.
She only knew her body responded before her mind could keep up.
And so, with no other defense left—
Jayna shut her eyes.