24. Helen
HELEN
The charcoal dress has shifted again in my closet. The hanger sits a fraction off-center, the hem angles differently, the fall of the fabric no longer aligned with the others. It’s subtle, almost laughable. But I know the way I leave things.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had that crawling awareness that something in here has been disturbed.
I leave it and head downstairs.
Anna is at the kitchen island with a glass of wine.
“Anna,” I say, “did someone come into my room? Maybe two days ago? And possibly today?”
She doesn’t look startled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear.”
I study her for a beat, weighing how far I’m willing to push.
Then the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it,” I say, already turning.
Maybe I let it drop for now. Watch instead of confront. And if it happens again, a camera in the closet wouldn’t be out of the question.
When I open the door, Victor fills the frame. He looks rested, crisp, like he’s stepped out of a magazine spread instead of a transatlantic flight.
“Jagger,” I say, a crease touching my brow before I smooth it away.
“Helen.” He pulls me into a hug while I’m still processing him being here. His mouth brushes my cheek. “Miss me?”
“Like you never thought.”
His mouth curves. “And how is that?”
I hadn’t prepared for that question.
Anna appears at my shoulder, and for once, she saves me. “Victor! Don’t hover out there, come in.”
We move toward the living room, and Anna turns, showing off the scarf around her throat.
“You see?” she says. “Isn’t it divine?”
“It suits you,” Victor replies.
“Such a beautiful surprise,” she adds. “I told him he didn’t have to bring anything.”
I look at him. “Wait…you’ve been back?”
A small, almost boyish apology touches his expression. He takes my hands, folding them into his as though this is something tender rather than intentional.
“I wanted to surprise you,” he says. “You’ve been buried in work. I thought I’d wait until you had space.”
It’s a reasonable answer. Thoughtful, even.
“Ah,” I reply.
It should settle it. It doesn’t.
“Helen,” he says, his gaze fixing on mine, “can we talk?”
Anna reads it and steps back. “You two talk.”
I lead Victor upstairs to my room. He steps inside, looking around as if reacquainting himself with the space.
“How was Europe?” I ask.
“Overrated without you,” he says smoothly. “Maybe your observation about it being boring is right. How about you? What have you been up to?”
“I rescued a hawk,” I tell him. “And fed some owlets.”
He smiles. “You’re still cute like that.”
Cute.
“Jag…”
He lifts a finger. “Wait. I have something for you.” He reaches into his coat and places a velvet box in my palm.
I open it.
A ring. The stone is deep blue, perhaps a sapphire.
I inhale and hold the breath.
“Relax.” He chuffs. “I’m not proposing. Not yet. If I were, it would be considerably larger.”
I manage a small laugh. “It’s beautiful. You shouldn’t have.”
He watches me more closely now.
“Jag, you were mad at me because I didn’t go with you,” I say carefully. “The truth is, I would’ve gone. I was just upset you decided for me.”
“Perhaps this is my way of correcting that,” he replies.
“This is…exquisite. It must’ve cost a fortune.”
“You’re worth it.” He leans in, brushing a kiss along my cheek before angling toward my mouth.
I turn slightly away.
“Helen?” His voice is assessing now. “Is there something else I need to correct?”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s not about correcting anything.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s been on my mind since you left for Europe,” I say. “I don’t want us to sprint toward something just because we’ve already been there. I want this to feel organic. We don’t need fancy dinner every time. Or tallying how often we have coffee together.”
His expression clears. Then something colder fills it.
“If this were an engagement ring,” he says, taking the velvet box back from my hand, “why did it feel like you were about to say no?”
I sit on the edge of the bed. “I agreed to try again. But let’s face it, we’re not who we were. Not anymore.”
He stands. The height difference suddenly feels deliberate.
“The Game. I gave you the benefit of the doubt,” he says. “That someone didn’t fuck you that night.”
The word hits like a slap. But it’s not the word, it’s the audit in his eyes, like he’s been thinking about it long before today.
I rise to my feet. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“There.” He points at my face. “That.”
“That what? Me not appreciating being accused?”
“You’re reacting.”
“Of course I’m reacting. You just implied I slept with someone.”
“You want us to be ‘organic’? Then tell me the truth, Helen. No fluff.”
“No one fucked me,” I fire back. “No one else even kissed me between that fugu dinner and now. Happy?”
He stares at me as if trying to peel something open.
“Toward the end.” His voice remains measured. “I left you inside those moving walls. Your dress was caught. When I returned, it wasn’t.”
So he noticed.
“It was part of the game,” I reply.
“Was it?”
He walks to my closet. He bends down and pulls something from beneath the charcoal dress. When he straightens, the red filigree curl rests between his fingers.
For a second I don’t breathe.
“You went through my things?” My voice goes cold. “You searched my room? Who let you in? Or did you go in like a thief?”
“Oh don’t act so territorial! Anna let me in. It’s her house anyway.”
“How dare you!”
“I had it analyzed. It’s from an expensive mask. Custom color, remarkable craftsmanship.”
“So that’s why you didn’t tell me you were back,” I say, the pieces locking into place. “Not to surprise me. You went through my room. Took something, put it back, and now you think you get to interrogate me?”
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s called searching for honesty.”
“That’s called breaking my fucking privacy.”
He steps closer and remains silent.
“Ah, you wanted to catch me, didn’t you?” I say. “You wanted to catch me doing something.”
“Don’t make this about me. Who did you fuck in the game?”
“No one.”
“Tell me who you chose,” he insists.
“I didn’t choose anyone.”
He throws the red curl onto the bed. “I know which mask that belongs to. Don’t play dumb. Tell me the truth or we’re done.”
There it is. The ultimatum.
The boy who once stood between me and bullies would never have searched my closet. And I am no longer the girl who would scramble to reassure him.
I look at him steadily. “We’re done.”
He flattens his lips. “You’ll regret that.”
“Try me.”
He laughs, sharp and ugly.
“You think he’s going to choose you? You think whoever that was gives a shit about you outside that room?”
“I think,” I say, stepping closer, “that I deserve someone who doesn’t treat me like a crime scene.”
He slides the velvet box back into his pocket. “Don’t come crawling back.”
“I won’t.”
He leaves. The door slams this time.
I stand there, breathing. The filigree curl gleams against my bedspread. I don’t know who Red Fox is. But I do know this.
If Victor finds him, it won’t be because I betrayed him. I will not be searched, analyzed, or threatened in my own home. Not ever again.