The second time was worse.
Because Hilary thought she was ready.
She stood at the edge of the private dining hall, fingers resting lightly against Gerard's sleeve. The fabric was familiar now—texture memorized, distance calculated. Her breathing was steady. Her shoulders were relaxed.
This wasn't a gala.
Not a board meeting.
Not a battlefield.
Just a closed-door dinner with partners who mattered.
Low lights.
Muted music.
Controlled noise.
Safe.
Gerard leaned slightly toward her, his voice low and precise.
"Three tables ahead," he murmured.
"Clear path. Two men standing near the window."
She nodded once.
"I've got it," she whispered back.
And she meant it.
They moved forward together, not touching, just close enough that she felt his presence like a steady line she could follow. She counted her steps, adjusted her pace, catalogued the sounds.
She was learning.
Proud of it.
A hand waved somewhere to her right.
"Chef Vale!"
Her heart lifted instinctively.
That voice—
warm, familiar, enthusiastic.
She turned toward it, smiling.
"Hello," she said brightly.
She stepped forward.
The scent reached her.
Cedar.
Her chest loosened.
Without thinking, without checking, without asking—
she opened her arms.
The man she moved toward froze.
Not startled.
Not confused.
Just… wrong.
Gerard reacted instantly.
"Hilary—"
Too late.
Her arms brushed a shoulder that was not his.
The scent shifted.
Cedar—
but shallow.
Overlayed.
Artificial.
Her blood turned cold.
She stopped mid-motion.
Pulled back sharply.
"I—" she began.
The man laughed awkwardly.
"Oh! I'm sorry," he said quickly. "Force of habit. You smelled like family."
The room seemed to tilt.
Hilary's ears rang.
Family.
Gerard stepped between them smoothly, his hand firm at the small of her back.
"My wife is sensitive to crowds," he said calmly. "Please excuse us."
The man nodded, flustered.
"Of course. Of course."
They moved away.
Too slowly.
Too visibly.
Hilary's hands shook now.
"That was—" she whispered.
"I know," Gerard said.
"I thought—" Her voice broke. "I thought I had it."
"You did," he replied immediately. "Until someone crossed your pattern."
She shook her head violently.
"No," she said. "I didn't check. I trusted the first thing I felt."
Gerard guided her toward a quieter corner, his voice never rising.
"Breathe," he instructed softly. "In."
She tried.
The air stuck.
"Out."
It came out in a rush.
Her heart hammered painfully.
"I almost hugged him," she said again, disbelief lacing every word. "In front of everyone."
"You stopped," Gerard repeated. "That matters."
"It doesn't feel like it," she snapped, then immediately winced. "I'm sorry."
"You don't need to apologize."
"Yes, I do," she insisted. "I look careless. Weak. Confused."
She swallowed hard.
"They'll talk."
"I know."
"They'll say it's happening again."
"I know."
"And this time," she whispered, "they'll be right."
Gerard turned her gently so she faced him.
She couldn't see his expression—
but she felt the shift in his posture.
Unmovable.
Certain.
"Listen to me," he said quietly. "You didn't fail."
She laughed, brittle.
"I literally reached for the wrong man."
"You reached for safety," he corrected. "Someone weaponized that against you."
Her breath stuttered.
"Who?" she asked.
Gerard didn't answer immediately.
He scanned the room instead.
Hilary felt it—the subtle pause, the alertness.
"What?" she asked urgently.
"There," he murmured. "By the drinks table."
She followed the direction of his voice.
A woman stood laughing lightly with two investors.
Poised.
Relaxed.
Watching.
Bianca.
The scent reached Hilary a moment later.
Floral.
Sharp.
Intentional.
Her stomach dropped.
"She's doing it on purpose," Hilary whispered.
"Yes," Gerard replied.
"She wants me to make mistakes."
"Yes."
"She wants them to see."
"Yes."
The confirmation hurt more than denial would have.
Hilary's knees weakened.
Gerard caught her instinctively—
then paused.
He remembered his promise.
"Do you want me to hold you?" he asked quietly.
The question alone steadied her.
"Yes," she answered.
He wrapped one arm around her, firm and grounding.
She leaned into him, careful, deliberate.
"This is humiliating," she whispered.
"No," he replied. "This is war."
Her lips parted.
"War?" she echoed.
"Yes," he said calmly. "And you're not losing."
She pulled back slightly.
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because she's forcing you to rush," he said. "Which means she's afraid of what happens if you slow down."
Hilary closed her eyes.
The noise of the room dulled.
She focused on the ribbon on his wrist.
Blue.
Certain.
"I skipped the check," she said quietly.
"Yes."
"I didn't ask you to speak first."
"No."
"I didn't confirm."
"No."
She inhaled slowly.
"Okay," she said.
"What?" Gerard asked.
"Next time," she continued, voice steadying, "I won't move unless you speak first."
He studied her carefully.
"That gives her more power."
"No," Hilary said softly. "It gives me control."
She straightened her spine.
"I choose the pace now."
Gerard's jaw tightened—not in fear, but pride.
"Alright," he said. "Then we reset."
They stayed where they were for a moment.
Letting whispers pass.
Letting curiosity burn itself out.
Then Gerard leaned in.
"Two steps left," he murmured.
"Clear path."
"No one approaching."
She nodded.
They moved again.
This time, Hilary didn't smile automatically.
Didn't open her arms.
Didn't assume.
She waited.
Listened.
Checked.
A man approached slowly.
Gerard spoke first.
"Partner from Milan," he said quietly. "Harmless."
Hilary extended her hand—only her hand.
"Good evening," she said warmly.
The interaction passed without incident.
Another voice.
Another check.
Another confirmation.
It worked.
Relief seeped in, slow and cautious.
By the end of the evening, Hilary was exhausted—but upright.
They left before dessert.
In the car, silence wrapped around them.
"I hate that she can do this," Hilary said finally.
"She can't," Gerard replied. "Not forever."
"She already has," Hilary countered. "Twice."
He turned toward her.
"And both times," he said firmly, "you came back to me."
Her throat tightened.
"That won't always be enough."
"It will be," he said. "As long as we adapt faster than she does."
Hilary stared out the window.
City lights blurred past—meaningless, shapeless.
"Next time," she said quietly, "I won't reach."
Gerard nodded.
"Next time," he agreed, "I'll whisper sooner."
They drove home in silence.
Behind them, inside the hotel, Bianca watched their departure from across the room.
Her smile was thin.
Calculated.
Almost.
So close.
But not yet.
She lifted her glass, eyes following the empty doorway.
Next time, she thought.
I won't miss.