The sound of the water filled every pause, every gap between words, like a veil pulled tight around them. Steam clung to Camille’s skin, beading at her colrbones, dripping down her chest in rivulets that refused to be ignored.

  Celeste leaned closer, her lips almost brushing Camille’s hairline. Her voice carried just enough strength to cut through the hiss of the shower.

  “You don’t have to fade. You’re seen.”

  The words struck like a chord Camille hadn’t realized she carried. Seen? The word burned through her ribs. Seen for what? A lover draped in crimson? A strategist clinging to relevance? Or a woman stripped bare, trembling like a novice before the altar?

  Marisol’s presence shifted, closer, closer still. Her lips pressed briefly to Camille’s temple, heat and water mingling with the whisper that followed.

  “You’re not here because we need you. You’re here because we allow you.”

  Camille’s entire body stiffened. The word lodged itself like a thorn. Allow. Her pride hissed:

  "No one allows me anything. I carved my pce. I earned it in blood and silence. I was never permitted—I took. But something deeper recoiled. Or was it longing?"

  Allowed.

  The word tasted dangerous, like submission, like belonging. A door she had never dared to open.

  Her breath caught, shuddering.

  "Do I despise this? Or crave it? Both?"

  Celeste’s hand slid along her back, not ciming, not restraining, but steadying. The touch told her she could lean without falling. Marisol’s fingers traced the line of her damp arm, lingering at her wrist, gentle yet firm, as though anchoring her in pce.

  Camille trembled, torn between the sharp sting of shame and the impossible relief of release.

  She wanted to tear herself free of them, to spit the word allow back into their faces.

  She wanted, at the same time, to colpse into it, to let the weight of her ambition drain into the stream of water rushing past her feet.

  Her thoughts collided until no single one stood clear. All that remained was the trembling, and the hands that refused to let her colpse alone.

  Celeste whispered again, her lips close to Camille’s ear.

  “You’re seen. Even when you hate it. Even when you wish to vanish.”

  Marisol followed, her tone lower, more deliberate, her mouth brushing close enough that Camille felt every word against her skin.

  “And if you stay, you’ll learn this: being allowed is not weakness. It’s the proof you belong.”

  Camille’s eyes shut tight, water running down her shes. She could not answer them. She could not yet decide if this was salvation or ruin. All she could do was tremble beneath the water—and let the whispers strike deeper than any crown ever had.