Not fast or wild, but in steady steps across the room, each turn sharp, each stop on purpose—like bance could fix everything if she just kept it even. The robe the Mistress had left her in still stuck to her skin in irritating spots. She fixed it once, then again, before giving up on it.

  The space felt tighter than it had just an hour earlier.

  Her mind wouldn't settle. Thoughts piled up, cshed, spun in loops.

  She hadn't been pushed into it.

  She hadn't fought back.

  She hadn't wanted it to end.

  That st part kept cracking her calm.

  Control had always been her strength. Keeping distance. Picking moments. Gaining ground. She'd handled marriages, deals, backstabs—come out ahead—by deciding exactly what to share and when. Closeness was something she directed. Something she used.

  The Mistress had broken that setup without even getting loud.

  Camille stopped moving, hands tightening into fists.

  She couldn't go to him. His power would just define the mess.

  She couldn't face Genevra. Her opinion would make it worse.

  She couldn't turn to Celeste. Her kindness would break her down.

  She needed someone who knew this pce—but didn't run it.

  With a slow breath out, Camille stepped from her room.

  Marisol's door felt warm under her knock. Not burning. Just warm. Like the air inside had its own pulse.

  It opened right away.

  Marisol stood there in a red robe, tied loose, dark hair spilling free over one shoulder. No shock on her face. Just quiet attention.

  "Camille?" she said gently. "What's going on?"

  Camille swallowed. The words stuck for a second—then came loose.

  "I need to talk."

  Marisol moved aside without a word.

  "Come in."

  No staring her down at the door. No guessing games. Just an open path.

  The door shut behind them with a soft click.

  "Sit," Marisol said, nodding to the bed.

  Camille paused. A chair would feel right. Or a table. Something with structure. But she did it anyway, edging onto the mattress, back straight, hands csped tight like a barrier.

  Marisol went across the room, poured some water, handed her the gss, then sat—not right next to her, but turned a bit, close enough to connect without taking over.

  She waited.

  Camille looked at the gss. "Nothing really happened," she said too fast. "It was just... different. I'm okay."

  Marisol stayed quiet.

  The silence hung there—not heavy, not pushing. Just there.

  Camille's jaw clenched.

  "I didn't make her stop," she said finally. "That's what scares me."

  Her voice shook a little, even though she tried to hold it steady. She kept going, words spilling out—about how she'd lost grip on her own reactions, how her body had ignored her calm, about the shame of craving something she hadn't seen coming.

  Marisol listened. Really took it in. When Camille's breathing started to catch, Marisol reached over—not to cut in, not to take charge—and held her hand.

  Her thumb drew slow, steady circles over Camille's knuckles.

  "You've always seen intimacy as a deal," Marisol said softly. "Something to trade. To handle. To use for advantage."

  Camille frowned.

  "I don't—"

  "You haven't learned it any other way," Marisol finished. "With her, it wasn't about losing control. It was about dropping the act."

  The words hit with a quiet weight.

  Camille stared at their linked hands. Her shoulders dropped, just a little.

  "I don't know who I am without that," she admitted.

  Marisol shifted closer—not overwhelming, not insisting. "I can't just teach you that."

  Camille's throat felt tight. She turned, looking into Marisol's eyes.

  "Would you try?"

  Marisol smiled—not sly, not winning. Just warm.

  "You can't teach experience," she said. "You have to live it."

  She leaned in then, taking her time, leaving room for Camille to back out.

  Camille didn't.

  The kiss was gentle. Curious. Steadying. When it broke, Camille held still—breathing it in, choosing.

  For the first time, it was her call.