Chapter 13: The Morning's Reckoning
The silence after Catriona’s question was absolute, broken only by the distant hum of the hotel’s ventilation. Mei-Ling’s fingers twitched against Aidan’s chest. He could feel the rapid thrum of her pulse where his hand still covered hers.
An hour. A stolen, unbudgeted hour.
Catriona watched them, her head tilted. The professional mask was gone, replaced by a curiosity that was both sharp and tender. “Well?” she said, her voice softer now. “The bathroom’s getting cold. And you,” she said, her gaze dropping to Mei-Ling’s robe, “are still damp.”
Mei-Ling finally looked away from Aidan, turning her face up to Catriona. “What would you like me to do?” she asked, but the cadence was different. It wasn’t the polished, anticipatory tone of a professional. It was smaller. Real.
“I’d like you to stop asking permission,” Catriona said, a gentle laugh in her words. She undid the sash of her own silk dressing gown, letting it fall open. “The script is done. The contract is fulfilled. This,” she said, gesturing between the three of them in the steam-hazy light, “is overtime. Off the books.”
She moved past them to the tub, reaching in to pull the plug. The gurgle of draining water was loud in the quiet.
Aidan found his voice. It came out rough. “Cat…”
She turned, water dripping from her hand. “Yes, my love?”
He had no question. Only a statement. “You planned this.”
“I hoped,” she corrected, smiling. “There’s a difference. I saw how you looked at her at breakfast. Not just hunger. Something else. And I saw how she looked at you in the bath. Not just performance.” She leaned back against the cool marble, arms crossed. “I wanted to see what would happen if I left the room. And now I know.”
Mei-Ling slowly withdrew her hand from Aidan’s chest. She turned and faced Catriona fully, the towel robe gaping slightly. “You want to know what happens next,” she said, not as a question.
“I do,” Catriona nodded. “But I’m not directing it. Not right now.” She looked at Aidan. “You are.”
The air left his lungs. His direction. His desire, unfiltered by her explicit design. It was the ultimate surrender, and the ultimate power, given in the same breath.
Mei-Ling waited, her dark eyes wide.
Aidan looked at her—the fragile collarbone, the marks of their possession, the quiet, expectant face. He thought of her question: Is this what love looks like? He didn’t have that answer. But he had a different one.
He reached out and touched her cheek, mirroring Catriona’s earlier gesture. Her skin was impossibly soft.
“Come here,” he said, his voice low.
He led her not to the bed, but to the large, fogged mirror above the vanity. He stood behind her, his broad frame enveloping her slender one. With his other hand, he cleared a swath of condensation, revealing their reflection—his weathered face over her porcelain one, his hands on her shoulders.
“Look,” he said.
She stared at their merged image, her expression unreadable.
“Cat,” Aidan said, not turning around.
“I’m here,” she murmured from her perch by the tub, her voice warm with approval.
“You see her?”
“I see her.”
Aidan kept his eyes on Mei-Ling’s reflection. “She stays for the hour. She stays with us. Not as a gift. As a… guest.”
Mei-Ling’s breath fogged the glass again. A single tear traced a path through the steam on her cheek, but she wasn’t sad. She looked awash in a profound, shocking relief.
Catriona pushed off from the wall and came to stand beside them, studying their reflection. She leaned her head on Aidan’s shoulder, her fiery hair a shock of color against his skin. “A guest,” she repeated, tasting the word. She smiled at Mei-Ling in the mirror. “Do you like French toast, Mei-Ling? Room service here does an obscene version with bourbon-maple syrup.”
Mei-Ling let out a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. “I’m starving.”
“Good,” Catriona said, straightening up. “So’s Aidan. He’s always ravenous after a performance.” She winked at his reflection, then gestured to the robe. “Now, come on, both of you. Out of this steam room. Guest or not, you’re not wearing my good towels to breakfast.”
The casualness of it, the sheer, normal domesticity she invoked, was more dizzying than any command. Aidan felt the tight knot in his chest begin to loosen. He squeezed Mei-Ling’s shoulders once, then let his hands fall.
She turned within the circle of his arms, not to leave, but to face him. She looked up, searching his eyes. Then, rising on her toes, she kissed him. It was brief, soft, and entirely her own initiative—a silent, grateful punctuation mark.
When she pulled away, she slipped between them, padding barefoot into the bedroom toward the pile of her simple, street clothes.
Catriona threaded her fingers through Aidan’s, leaning into his side. They watched Mei-Ling dress in the morning light, the act somehow more intimate than her nudity.
“A guest,” Catriona whispered, her lips against his ear.
“For an hour,” he replied, the statement a question.
Catriona just smiled, watching Mei-Ling struggle with the tiny buttons on her blouse. “We’ll see,” she said.