Hilary knew the moment she stepped out of the car—
this was a mistake.
The air itself felt crowded.
Perfume layered over perfume.
Voices overlapping.
Shoes scraping marble in irregular rhythms.
A reception.
A public one.
Her fingers tightened instinctively around Gerard's sleeve.
"Too much?" he asked quietly, leaning closer.
"Yes," she answered honestly. "But we're already here."
He nodded once.
"I won't leave your side."
She inhaled.
Cedar.
Paper.
Coffee.
Still him.
They entered the hotel ballroom together.
Light exploded around her.
Not brightness—
but confusion.
Her eyes registered shapes without meaning.
Movement without identity.
People turned.
Paused.
Watched.
Hilary felt it like pressure against her skin.
"She looks fine," someone whispered nearby.
"Of course she does," another voice replied. "She always does."
Her smile stayed in place.
Chef Vale.
The genius.
The icon.
No one here knew that inside her chest,
everything was shaking.
Gerard leaned closer, voice low and controlled.
"Three steps forward," he murmured.
"Table on your left. Glass railing behind."
She nodded, following his cues like a dance she'd memorized overnight.
A woman approached.
Heels. Sharp. Confident.
"Chef Vale," the woman said warmly. "It's an honor."
Hilary tilted her head.
She waited.
Nothing.
No recognition.
No anchor.
Gerard whispered, barely moving his lips.
"Board member. Mrs. Hargreave."
Hilary smiled instantly.
"Mrs. Hargreave," she greeted. "Lovely to see you."
The woman beamed.
"You look radiant," she said. "We were all so worried after the earthquake."
Hilary laughed softly.
"I'm harder to break than the building," she replied.
Polite laughter followed.
The group shifted.
Another voice joined.
Male.
Low.
Confident.
"Hilary."
Her heart jumped.
The scent reached her—
Cedar.
Her breath caught.
Without thinking,
she turned toward it
and stepped forward.
Her hands lifted.
She embraced him.
The body stiffened instantly.
Too stiff.
The scent—
Wrong.
Her stomach dropped.
"Oh—" the man began.
Gerard's hand closed around her wrist.
Firm.
Grounding.
"Hilary," Gerard said softly. "It's me. Here."
She froze mid-movement.
The world went silent.
The scent snapped into place.
Cedar.
Real.
Close.
She pulled back, face burning.
"I—" she started.
The man she had almost hugged laughed awkwardly.
"My fault," he said quickly. "I use the same cologne as Mr. Vale. Bad habit."
Bianca.
Hilary felt it then.
That sharp floral note underneath.
Her nails dug into Gerard's palm.
"Excuse us," Gerard said calmly, his voice steel-wrapped in silk.
He guided Hilary a step back.
Her breathing was uneven now.
Too fast.
Too shallow.
"I almost—" she whispered.
"I know," he said. "I'm here."
But the room had changed.
Eyes lingered too long.
Whispers sharpened.
"She seemed confused."
"Did you see that?"
"Is she alright?"
The walls pressed in.
Hilary's chest tightened painfully.
"I need air," she said.
Now.
Gerard nodded once.
He didn't ask questions.
Didn't hesitate.
He led her through the side corridor,
counting steps aloud for her.
"Door. Two more. Now."
They reached the restroom.
The door closed.
The silence hit her like a wave.
Hilary stumbled to the sink,
gripping the counter.
Her reflection stared back—
pale,
controlled,
breaking.
"I hugged the wrong man," she whispered.
Gerard stood behind her,
careful not to crowd.
"You stopped yourself," he said.
"I shouldn't have had to."
Her breathing broke.
"I trusted the scent," she continued, voice shaking.
"And it lied to me."
He moved closer.
"This isn't your fault."
She laughed once—sharp and bitter.
"It will be," she said. "Soon."
She pressed her palms flat against the counter.
"I can't do this," she whispered.
"I can't stand in rooms like that.
I can't survive in a world full of people who smell like you."
Gerard didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket.
He held something out.
A ribbon.
Blue.
He tied it gently around his wrist.
"This is new," he said.
She stared at it.
"For what?" she asked.
"So even if the scent lies," he replied,
"your hands won't."
Her throat closed.
Slowly,
carefully,
she reached out.
Her fingers brushed fabric.
Then skin.
Then the ribbon.
Blue.
Solid.
Certain.
She exhaled a broken breath.
"Okay," she whispered.
"I can try again."
He nodded.
"Only if you want to."
She turned toward him.
Her eyes still saw nothing.
But her hands knew.
"Yes," she said. "I want to."
Outside the restroom,
voices murmured.
Bianca stood near the glass wall,
watching the closed door with quiet interest.
She adjusted her posture.
Smoothed her sleeve.
So close, she thought.
So very close.
Hilary stayed leaning against the sink longer than necessary.
Not because her legs were weak.
But because if she moved,
she would have to face the world again.
Her fingers remained wrapped around the blue ribbon on Gerard's wrist.
She traced the edge of the fabric slowly,
as if memorizing it by touch alone.
"Are they still outside?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," Gerard replied. "But they're pretending not to wait."
She huffed a humorless laugh.
"Of course they are."
She straightened her back,
lifted her chin,
and practiced the smile she had worn her entire career.
Chef Vale.
Untouchable.
Perfect.
A lie she had lived inside for years.
"I don't want to go back in," she admitted.
Gerard didn't answer right away.
He studied her reflection—
the way her shoulders were tense,
the way her jaw locked to keep her breathing even.
"We don't have to," he said finally.
She shook her head.
"If I don't," she replied,
"they'll know something's wrong.
And once they smell weakness—
they never forget."
He stepped closer.
"You don't owe them anything."
She smiled faintly.
"I owe myself survival."
She released his wrist.
Her hands trembled now that the anchor was gone.
Gerard noticed immediately.
"Hilary."
She closed her eyes.
"Give me thirty seconds," she said. "Don't talk."
He obeyed.
She inhaled slowly.
Cold porcelain.
Soap.
Her own perfume—soft, floral, familiar.
She counted backward.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Her heartbeat slowed.
By the time she opened her eyes again,
she was steady.
"Okay," she said. "We go back."
They stepped into the corridor together.
The ballroom noise surged to meet them.
Laughter.
Clinking glasses.
Muted music.
Hilary felt it all crash over her like a wave.
Gerard leaned in,
his voice barely audible.
"Three steps forward.
Then turn right.
Table with white linen."
She followed.
A man greeted them.
"Mr. Vale," he said cheerfully. "Good to see you."
Gerard nodded politely.
Hilary waited.
Nothing.
No name surfaced.
Gerard's fingers brushed the back of her hand—twice.
Signal.
Board member.
"Good evening," Hilary said warmly. "Thank you for coming."
The man smiled, satisfied.
"She seems fine," he said lightly.
The words sliced sharper than he intended.
Hilary smiled wider.
"I'm better than fine," she replied. "I'm inspired."
More laughter.
But this time,
it felt thinner.
Eyes lingered.
Hilary felt it in her bones.
They moved through the room like that—
a choreography of whispers and touches.
Gerard guided.
Hilary followed.
Until she didn't.
A woman stepped into her path suddenly.
The scent hit her hard.
Floral.
Sharp.
Wrong.
Hilary stopped.
Her breath caught.
"I—" she began.
The room seemed to tilt.
Her ears rang.
Someone laughed nearby.
Another voice chimed in.
Too many.
Too close.
Her vision tunneled.
"Hilary," Gerard said immediately, closer now. "Breathe with me."
She tried.
Her lungs refused to cooperate.
Her hands fumbled—
grasping for the ribbon,
for his sleeve,
for anything solid.
"I can't—" she whispered. "I can't—"
Her chest tightened painfully.
The room closed in.
"I'm sorry," she said suddenly, words tumbling out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
Gerard wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
"Enough," he said firmly.
He turned toward the nearest onlookers.
"My wife needs air," he stated. "Excuse us."
No apology.
No explanation.
Just fact.
He guided her away as murmurs followed them.
"She's overwhelmed."
"Is she ill?"
"I told you something was off."
The words chased them down the hall.
Hilary's breathing broke completely once they reached the quiet corridor.
She slid down against the wall,
hands clutching her chest.
"I'm failing," she sobbed. "I'm failing in front of them."
Gerard knelt in front of her instantly.
"You are surviving," he said sharply. "That is not failure."
She shook her head.
"I almost ruined you," she whispered. "Your reputation. Your company."
He took her face gently between his hands.
She couldn't see him.
But she felt the steadiness.
"Look at me," he said.
She laughed weakly.
"I can't."
"Then listen," he corrected. "And remember this."
His voice lowered,
absolute.
"If the world makes you choose between dignity and safety,
choose safety.
I can rebuild anything they take from me."
Her sob caught.
"You shouldn't have to," she said.
"I want to," he replied.
She leaned forward,
pressing her forehead into his shoulder.
Her breathing slowly evened out.
"I don't want to go back," she whispered.
"You don't have to," he said again.
This time,
she believed him.
From the far end of the corridor,
Bianca watched quietly.
She didn't smile.
Not yet.
She noted the trembling.
The escape.
The whispers spreading like ink in water.
Progress, she thought.
Not victory.
But close.