Chapter 11: The Morning After
The silence held until the room service cart rattled in the hallway. A sharp, mundane sound that made Mei-Ling jump, a tiny convulsion against Catriona’s chest. The spell of intertwined limbs broke.
Catriona untangled herself with a sigh, shrugging into a robe. “That’ll be the coffee. And the morphine croissants.”
Aidan watched her go, the red fire of her hair bright even in the dull morning light. The door opened, low voices exchanged, the cart wheels squeaked on the marble. The normalcy of it was jarring. He became acutely aware of his own nakedness, of Mei-Ling’s shallow breathing beside him, of the sticky, cooling evidence of the night painted across her thigh and the sheets.
Mei-Ling stirred, pushing herself up on an elbow. She winced. “Could I…” she began, her voice a ragged whisper. She cleared her throat. “Could I stay for breakfast? Before I go.”
It wasn’t part of the script. The contract, as Catriona had laid it out, ended at dawn. Aidan looked toward the sitting area where Catriona was lifting silver domes. He saw his wife’s back straighten, then a slow smile curve her profile. She turned.
“Of course you can,” Catriona said, her tone smooth as the silk she wore. “But first, a debriefing. Or rather, a de-griming.” She walked back to the bed, her eyes scanning Mei-Ling’s small, marked body. “Aidan. The bathroom. Fill the tub. Wash her.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. Aidan felt the command slide into him, a familiar, welcome trigger. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his muscles protesting. He offered a hand to Mei-Ling. She took it, her fingers cold and light as bird bones.
The bathroom was a temple of steam and white marble. He ran the water, testing the temperature until it was just shy of too hot. He poured in a capful of Catriona’s bergamot oil, the crisp scent cutting through the room’s heavier perfumes.
Mei-Ling stood by the tub, arms folded over her chest, shivering though the room was warm. The mirrored walls showed her from every angle—the bloom of bruises on her hips, the faint red marks on her throat, the vulnerable line of her spine. She was a map of their night.
“In you go,” Aidan said, his voice softer than he’d intended.
She stepped into the deep tub, sinking into the water with a sharp hiss that softened into a groan. She submerged up to her chin, closing her eyes.
Aidan knelt on the bath mat. He took a cloth and a bar of soap, working up a thick lather. He started with her feet, one at a time, lifting them from the water. He washed the arch, between her toes, his carpenter’s hands absurdly gentle. He moved up her calves, the soap sliding over her skin, erasing the traces.
He felt Catriona’s presence in the doorway before he saw her. She leaned against the frame, arms crossed, watching. Her expression was unreadable—part satisfaction, part clinical assessment.
Aidan’s hands moved over Mei-Ling’s knees, her thighs. He avoided the center, washing around it, the soapy water doing its own work there. He moved to her stomach, her ribs. Each pass of the cloth was a silent apology, a thank you, a re-claiming. She was his to dirty, and now his to clean.
“Her back,” Catriona said from the doorway.
Mei-Ling shifted forward, leaning her arms on the rolled edge of the tub, presenting the expanse of her back. Aidan soaped the cloth again. He washed the delicate shoulder blades, the knobs of her spine, the faint scratches from Catriona’s nails. He was methodical, thorough.
Then Catriona was there, kneeling beside him, her robe dipping into a puddle on the floor. She took the soap from his hand. “I’ll get this part.”
Her own hands, bare and sure, slid over Mei-Ling’s shoulders. She worked the soap into a richer lather, massaging it into the girl’s tense muscles. Mei-Ling’s head dropped forward, another soft sound escaping her.
Aidan’s hand, still wet and soapy, rested on Mei-Ling’s hip, steadying her. Catriona’s hand, suds sliding down the small of Mei-Ling’s back, met his there. Their fingers didn’t intertwine, but they touched, a connection over the territory of this spent, pliant body between them. The water lapped. The steam rose.
Mei-Ling turned her head, her cheek resting on her arm. Her eyes, huge and dark, found Catriona’s. There was no professional serenity left. There was only a raw, bewildered gratitude, a hollowed-out exhaustion that looked like awe.
Slowly, as if moving through deep water, Mei-Ling lifted a dripping hand. She placed it on Catriona’s wrist, not to stop her, but to feel her. Then she leaned up and forward, and she kissed Catriona on the mouth.
It was not a peck. It was deep, yearning, messy with steam and salt. Catriona made a small, surprised sound in her throat, then her hand came up to cup the back of Mei-Ling’s head, holding her there for a long, breathless moment.
When they parted, Mei-Ling turned, water sloshing. She looked at Aidan, her gaze clear and direct. She kissed him too, softer, a transfer of taste—bergamot, Catriona, herself. It tasted like an ending and a beginning all at once.
“Okay,” Mei-Ling whispered, pulling back. “Okay.”
Catriona stood, retrieving a large, fluffy towel. “Out you get.”
They dried her together, a silent, efficient team. They wrapped her in the towel and then, because she was unsteady, Aidan lifted her, towel and all, and carried her back to the bedroom. He laid her on the cleared side of the bed, where the sheets were least ruined.
Catriona brought the breakfast cart over. They ate in bed, croissants crumbling on the duvet, bitter coffee cutting through the sweet fatigue. No one spoke much. Mei-Ling ate with a small, focused hunger. Catriona watched her like a curator observing a finished sculpture. Aidan watched both of them, a new, quiet understanding dawning in his chest, heavy and sure as a stone.
The morning light grew stronger, stripping the room of mystery. It showed the mess, the exhaustion, the reality. But it also showed Mei-Ling, clean and swaddled in white terrycloth, reaching for a strawberry from Catriona’s plate without asking. It showed Catriona letting her take it, a faint, possessive smile touching her lips.
The gift had been given, received, and utterly consumed. But as Mei-Ling bit into the fruit, red juice gleaming at the corner of her mouth, Aidan knew with cold certainty that the transaction was not over. The artifact remained. And his wife, his brilliant, fearless wife, had never been one to discard a masterpiece.