"I-it's nothing," Jayna said, forcing a careless tone that didn't quite hold. "I just… suddenly thought of a few things. About what we should buy later…"
The excuse came out messy. She stared blankly out the window for a moment, as if her thoughts had drifted somewhere she couldn't retrieve.
Ginevra glanced at her—at the way Jayna's shoulders seemed to sink, at how the bright flame of her earlier confidence had, for no clear reason, dimmed into something listless.
"What's wrong with you," Ginevra asked with her eyes more than her voice. How did you suddenly wilt like that?
"I've already planned it for you," Ginevra said instead, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting lightly near the window.
Jayna turned, startled. "You planned it?"
Ginevra nodded.
Before they'd even arrived, Tom Hanley had messaged her—lists, updates, what he'd brought over for Jayna, what was still missing. And then, because Tom was Tom—an assistant who had survived in the entertainment world by sniffing out invisible danger like a trained hound—he'd added more.
Details. Habits. Warnings.
He'd clearly decided that Dr. Volkova was one of them now.
So naturally, he'd begun "uploading" information—anything Ginevra might need to know if Jayna truly meant to live under her roof. Especially the things Jayna didn't say out loud. Especially the things that could creep up behind her.
And at the top of that list—above schedules, above shopping, above "please make sure she eats"—was a name Tom typed as if it were a red flag nailed to a door.
Mindy.
Mindy Hall wasn't someone Jayna ever treated as an equal. If anything, Jayna's attitude toward her was closer to disdain—an effortless, casual kind of contempt, like brushing dust off a sleeve.
But Tom didn't trust Mindy. Not for a second.
To the public, she was clean and gentle, a carefully cultivated image of harmlessness. Behind the scenes, she had a reputation—smiling while planting thorns, spreading rumors with soft hands, using ugly, petty tricks to drag competitors down. Jayna had been caught in the splash of it before.
The two women had never acted opposite each other, yet they were constantly compared. Similar timing. Similar fame. Both hailed as top-tier actresses, both with resources and backing that made their names heavy in any room.
And recently—there had been that endorsement deal.
The Chaemante campaign had originally been rumored to go to Mindy. People spoke as if it was already decided. Then, at the last moment, it switched. The contract went to Jayna instead.
And whatever investment Mindy's sponsor—some rich heir named Harrison Langford—had poured into greasing the wheels… went up in smoke.
Tom's message had been blunt in its anxiety: She's furious. I don't know what she'll do.
So when Tom learned Jayna planned to waltz into a high-end mall in a tracksuit, he nearly had an aneurysm.
Jayna stared down at her phone as Tom's messages kept popping up, one after another, with that relentless "worried mother" energy he used like a full-time job. She sighed.
She was just going to shop.
So what if she wore sportswear? Was she suddenly not allowed to be a normal human being?
She, Jayna Stevens, was very down-to-earth.
—Boss, Mindy's in town these days. I'm not saying the tracksuit is bad—just… if someone from her side catches footage, they might twist it. Let me scout first, then I'll update you.
Jayna's brows lifted.
She already knew Mindy was here. She'd heard it at the GoldenEarth club—Mindy and Harrison, laughing like they owned the city.
Jayna typed back, sharp and proud.
—What, you think I'm afraid of her?
Tom replied instantly, as if he'd been waiting with his thumb hovering over the screen.
—No. It's the endorsement thing. She's definitely unhappy. And she knows you're filming here. If she sees you in the mall and you're only with Dr. Volkova… her people might try to smear you. Just—be careful in public.
Jayna exhaled slowly.
The industry loved to call itself a "clear pool," a clean circle. In reality, everyone moved like they were walking across thin ice—one wrong step and strangers would point and judge and pick you apart. And Jayna—who had been singled out by a petty little cat with claws—was exhausted by it.
Why couldn't people just compete openly, fairly, in the daylight?
She thought for a moment, then glanced at Ginevra beside her. Ginevra's expression was calm, but her eyes were attentive—quietly watchful, the way she always was.
Jayna's annoyance softened into something more careful.
Tom was right about one thing: if she was going to live with Ginevra, she couldn't afford to be reckless. It wasn't that she feared Mindy.
It was that she refused to drag Ginevra into the mud of other people's games.
"Giny," Jayna said, "do you have a pen?"
Ginevra glanced at her and nodded toward the compartment in front.
Jayna opened it and—sure enough—found a black pen.
Then, with absolute seriousness, she flipped down the sun visor mirror and began dotting her own face.
Ginevra pulled into the underground parking garage. When Jayna turned back toward her, Ginevra actually flinched.
Jayna's smooth, pale face now had a scatter of tiny black dots—dense little freckles, applied one by one with a pen like a deranged artist.
"How's my ugly-disguise technique?" Jayna asked, pleased with herself as she inspected the results in the mirror.
Ginevra stared, momentarily speechless.
Then she nodded as if she'd been forced into agreement by circumstances she couldn't argue with. "Perfect."
Jayna rolled her eyes at her, then held up her small compact mirror, studying the speckled "masterpiece."
"Fine," she muttered. "If I don't do this, Tom will keep texting me every two seconds and I'll never get peace. Better safe than sorry. I can't let anyone recognize me." Her mouth tightened, then she added, softer, "Someone out there doesn't like seeing me comfortable. And she's probably in this city too."
"Who?" Ginevra asked, the question clipped, her brow drawing together.
Jayna arched one elegant brow, feigning offense in a way that was too playful to be real. "The one whose skincare you use. Mindy Hall. Oh—do you like her that much? Using her products and everything."
Ginevra's denial came instantly, sharp with sincerity.
"I don't like her. I don't even know who she is." Her expression hardened with a kind of moral seriousness that almost made Jayna laugh. "I'll replace them today."
Jayna's face brightened at once, as if she'd been given a gift. She had only been teasing—she knew Ginevra didn't watch celebrity news, didn't care about entertainment gossip. Ginevra was the kind of person who walked through a world of headlines without noticing any of the noise.
"She targets you?" Ginevra asked next, more quietly. But her vigilance had sharpened, and something cold crept into her eyes.
Jayna's smile softened. She didn't want to pull Ginevra into the complicated, poisonous web of it. So she kept it light.
"In public, it's all 'darling' and 'sweetheart' and smiles," Jayna said, almost amused. "But in their heads they're praying you'll fall. She watches every resource I touch like it belongs to her."
Then she caught the frost in Ginevra's face—caught the way Ginevra's mood could turn heavy in a heartbeat—and Jayna immediately gentled her voice.
"That's why people need to learn contentment," Jayna said softly. "What's mine, I'll hold onto. What isn't, I won't fight for." She looked at Ginevra, and her gaze warmed into something so honest it almost hurt. "Right now I'm already satisfied. The universe gave me you again. I feel like… I could give up everything else."
Ginevra's anger, which had been gathering like storm clouds, melted into something soft and sweet—like sugar dissolving in warmth.
Her ears reddened. She didn't even notice at first.
"You really mean that?" she asked, voice quiet, and the tenderness in her eyes looked unguarded for once.
Jayna blinked, then smiled—like she couldn't help it. "Of course I do." She tipped her head toward the mirror and widened her eyes dramatically. "Hey, should I add two more dots here?"
Ginevra shook her head.
She watched Jayna's hands, her pocket mirror, the small compact of powder Jayna somehow produced next, and she found herself wondering—purely, genuinely curious—how Jayna managed to fit half her life into her pockets.
But the strangest part was this:
No matter how Jayna painted herself, dotted herself, disguised herself—Ginevra still thought she was beautiful.
"Looks good," Ginevra said quietly.
Jayna stared at her. "Ginevra Volkova, I'm trying to look ugly. Do you not feel guilty lying with such a straight face?"
"I'm not lying," Ginevra replied.
Her voice dropped slightly—soft, low, almost damp with something that made Jayna's skin prickle.
Jayna's throat went dry.
The underground garage was dim; the only light inside the car was the small overhead lamp above them. Everything else was shadow and hush.
Jayna's mind, traitorous and vivid, flashed a scene: if that light went out, if darkness swallowed them whole… would they kiss? Would Ginevra's eyes change into something other than calm?
Jayna heard herself swallow. Loudly.
Then—at the worst possible moment—her ringtone erupted.
Some bright, sugary pop hook blared into the intimacy like a rude stranger bursting through a closed door.
Jayna snatched her phone with murderous intent and shut it off so quickly she nearly crushed it. She wanted to throw it out the window. She wanted to bury it in concrete.
Ginevra leaned back at once, breaking the spell.
In the dim, her face was flushed.
She was almost grateful for the interruption.
Jayna scooped up the phone from where it had slid down by her feet and stuffed it into her pocket without looking.
She didn't need to guess who it was. Tom. Of course it was Tom.
"I'll go get you skincare first," Ginevra said, stepping out of the car with practiced composure. She'd already rebuilt her usual cool mask. She circled around and opened Jayna's door for her.
Jayna climbed out, suspicious. "You don't want me with you?"
Ginevra hesitated, then said evenly, "Aren't you… buying underwear?"
It came out practical, but there was a faint stiffness to it, like embarrassment hidden beneath discipline.
Jayna's smile tugged upward. She understood instantly.
Ginevra didn't want to step into an underwear store. Not with Jayna. It was too much.
Too intimate.
Too… humiliating, in a way only shy people understood.
"Okay," Jayna said lightly, saving her without teasing too hard. "I'll pick and tell you what I chose."
"Mm," Ginevra replied, relieved.
They took the elevator up together. A woman in navy athletic wear with a freckled face and oversized sunglasses drew no suspicion—none of the other riders recognized her.
Some even looked at Jayna with faint pity.
Such a tall, lovely figure… wasted on a face full of dots that made people oddly uncomfortable.
Jayna couldn't help laughing as they stepped out.
"See? They all think I'm ugly," she said smugly. "So I'm safe. Completely free."
Ginevra watched her, and a strange, quiet shame rose in her chest.
How had she not recognized Jayna at the hospital that day?
She had imagined Jayna so many times over the years—imagined her face, her voice, the shape of her smile—yet the real Jayna still exceeded those imaginings, still slipped beyond the boundary of memory.
Without meaning to, Ginevra spoke the thought out loud.
"Even prettier than I imagined."
Jayna blinked. "Hm?"
Ginevra realized what she'd said and smiled faintly, as if brushing it off.
Then she reached into her coat and held out a card.
Jayna took it automatically, confused. "What's this?"
"A bank card," Ginevra said simply. "You didn't bring a bag. Use it."
Jayna stared at her.
Ginevra's face was still calm, still that familiar blend of coolness and softness—yet the gesture struck Jayna in a place she didn't know was tender.
Because Jayna remembered, very clearly, how people used to describe Ginevra: tight-fisted, cold, the type who would count pennies like Scrooge and demand every cent back with interest.
And now Ginevra was handing her a card as if it were nothing.
"No, it's okay," Jayna said, suddenly shy. "I have my phone. I can pay with that."
"It's not safe," Ginevra said, stubbornly serious. "Use the card."
Jayna saw the firmness in her eyes—saw that she wouldn't budge.
So Jayna slipped the card into her pocket, obedient despite herself.
Then, because she couldn't resist, she tilted her head and asked playfully, "And what's the PIN?"
Ginevra looked at her—looked at her as if there were something inside her she couldn't quite say out loud.
Then she answered, simply, "Your birthday."
Jayna's eyes widened.
For a moment, she just stood there, breath caught in her throat.
Ginevra stepped closer and looked at her like Jayna was ridiculous. "Don't tell me you don't know your own birthday."
"N-no, it's not that—" Jayna's voice wobbled, her nose stinging. She blinked fast, like she could blink the ache away. "I just… I didn't expect you to use my birthday. I'm happy. Not just happy—really happy."
She hadn't celebrated her birthday in years.
She feared that day. Feared how it dragged her back to that old, brutal goodbye, how it made the absence feel sharper.
So she'd simply stopped.
But hearing her birthday from Ginevra now—hearing it used like this—made something inside her unclench.
It meant Ginevra hadn't forgotten.
It meant Ginevra might have been holding her, quietly, all along, in a place Jayna couldn't see.
Jayna lowered her head in panic, afraid tears would spill out and ruin her stupid freckles.
Ginevra watched her reaction and felt guilt prickle like a needle.
She shouldn't have said it outright. She should've waited until Jayna actually used the card, then texted her.
Some things were better kept quietly.
Jayna's details—every small thing about her—Ginevra already carried them alone.
Instinct took over.
Ginevra wrapped her arms around Jayna gently, carefully, and pulled Jayna's head to rest against her shoulder. Then, awkwardly—imitating the way Jayna had comforted her—she patted Jayna's back, slow and steady.
Her hand slid through Jayna's hair, soothing.
"This is a mall," Ginevra murmured, half teasing, half real concern. "Aren't you afraid someone will see you crying?"
Jayna didn't dare hug her back.
She was terrified Ginevra would let go the moment Jayna clung too tightly.
So she simply grasped the edge of Ginevra's coat, fingers curled there like a quiet plea, and whispered, "I'm not afraid."
Ginevra laughed softly.
Good, she thought. At least she isn't crying—those freckles would be ruined.
Then she looked at Jayna, voice lowering with a different kind of protectiveness.
"But I don't want you crying in front of other people." She hesitated, then offered, practical again. "If you want, you can wait in the car. I'll buy them for you."
Jayna shook her head hard.
She knew Ginevra's shyness too well. Walking into an underwear store to buy things for Jayna—Ginevra would rather be medically sedated.
"No," Jayna said quickly. "I'll do it."
Then she tried to lighten the mood again, smiling up at her. "You're just afraid I'll swipe your card to death, aren't you?"
Ginevra lifted one brow.
And then, for a brief, rare moment, a flash of pride rose in her—something almost arrogant, almost unapologetic, as if she remembered she could be imposing when she wanted to be.
Her voice rose slightly, crisp and commanding.
"My card," she said, eyes steady on Jayna, "swipe whatever you want."
Jayna's heart kicked wildly against her ribs.
Damn it.
A line like that—so possessive, so indulgent—hit harder in real life than any scripted romance ever could.