18. Helen #2
Holy madness. I have never betrayed anyone. Not in thought. Not in touch. And yet this feels like infidelity. Nothing truly happened, and somehow, everything did.
“Victor…” My hand shifts, pressing against his chest.
His mouth finds my neck while his fingers grip my waist. “We made it,” he says, almost laughing. “You were incredible. I knew you would be.”
Everything in him exudes satisfaction and pride. But he doesn’t give me that delicious contradiction I felt earlier tonight—Fox’s stillness against my rising hunger. There isn’t even room here for me.
“Take me home,” I decide.
He pulls back sharply. “What?”
“Please.”
A flicker crosses his jaw before it smooths into charm. “Of course,” he says, brushing his finger along my cheek. “You’ve had a long night.”
The disappointment is subtle, but I feel it. He had expected a different ending. A different reward.
He wraps an arm around my shoulders and guides me toward the exit. “You did beautifully,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”
I nod, though my thoughts are elsewhere.
Before we leave, the magician appears again. He returns Victor’s wallet and my phone, then produces my clutch—the one that landed me in that interrogation room. A knowing smile spreads across his face. “Good game, ma’am.” He places it into my palm.
Outside the gate, a taxi waits.
Somewhere between New York’s night sky and city lights, something has changed.
And Victor is looking the other way.
Morning arrives while I’m still hovering between sleep and consciousness. I register the coolness of the studio first, then the stir of the house above me. I came down here instead of going to my bedroom upstairs last night, not wanting to wake Anna.
I stretch slowly, the cotton of my T-shirt sliding against my skin as I smooth the hem back into place. I changed before lying down, grateful for the spare clothes I keep here. The velvet gown hides behind the backdrop sheets, holding last night’s secret.
I draw a deep breath. The scent of printer ink and photo paper grounds me in something solid. And yet none of it feels as real as him.
Red Fox.
The memory presses in. The warmth of his breath in the dark, the choice he gave me, and the restraint he kept when everything in that room leaned toward more. It lingers like a pulse at my lips.
Go away.
I roll onto my side and bury my face in the pillow, as if that might push him out of my head.
It was the Game—a constructed environment with controlled lighting and elevated stakes designed to amplify sensation.
Victor is real.
Victor is my past and my present.
Victor is the man who stood beneath the closing walls and climbed above them to stop the mechanism. The man I told I was ready to start again with.
Red Fox was only part of the illusion.
I press my eyes shut.
Then why does he feel so real?
A knock pulls me upright.
“Someone’s here to see you,” Anna sings from beyond the studio door, far too cheerful for this hour.
I open it halfway. She stands there, appraising me.
“Good grief! What happened to you?”
My hand lifts instinctively to the spot where the mask pressed against my skin.
“You don’t want to know.”
“You slept here?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “Not the first time.” I let the door open wider.
Victor stands just beyond her shoulder, immaculate as always, composed like last night were just a visit to the gym. He’s carrying the aroma of coffee and something buttery and warm.
“I’ll leave you two to it,” Anna says, shooting me a look before patting Victor on the shoulder and heading upstairs.
“Morning, Helen,” Victor greets as he steps closer. His gaze sweeps my face, lingering in a way that almost reads as concern. “You shouldn’t take the Game too seriously.”
“Maybe.”
He lifts a takeaway carrier. “I’m bringing salvation.”
The scent hits me fully now—coffee, toasted bread, hollandaise. My stomach reacts before my pride can intervene.
“Lifesaver,” I say, stepping aside to let him in. “Figuratively and literally.”
“Sit,” he says, already unpacking containers on my worktable. “Eat.”
I take the coffee first, wrapping both hands around it and drinking deeply.
“Oh God. That’s good.”
“Better than sex?”
I almost choke, and Victor laughs.
“You could’ve had one,” he adds, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
“Ah…yeah.”
He lets that hang and turns back to the food. The eggs benedict are arranged neatly, yolk golden and precise.
“Your favorite, right? Still?”
“Uh-huh.”
Victor watches as I pick up the cutlery.
“So,” he says casually, though his gaze sharpens. “You met some of the other players when I wasn’t with you?”
I swallow.
“I met them, yes. It was part of the Game, wasn’t it?”
“Of course.” He nods. “Of course.”
There’s something in the repetition that pricks at me, but I let it go.
I cut into the egg and watch the yolk spill across the plate, not really seeing it.
“Is there something wrong?” he asks.
I lift a brow and finally start eating. “No. It’s good. You chose well. I’m surprised you remembered.”
“You’re underestimating me.” He raises his eyes to me and lifts a piece of sourdough to his mouth.
“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…it’s been a long time since you bought me eggs benedict.”
“True.” He reaches for a napkin and dabs the corner of my mouth. “Better than fugu?”
“More reassuring.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
My neck warms at the word ‘question.’ But I nod. “Go ahead.”
“If there’s a chance to play again…will you?”
I chew slowly, buying time. I told him I wanted to start again, to resume where we left off eight years ago. I can’t undo that because of a masked stranger. I won’t let a game—however intoxicating—dismantle something I chose to rebuild in daylight.
“No.”
And yet, even as I finish the coffee and nod at whatever Victor says next, my fingers brush unconsciously against my palm.
As if expecting to feel the small metallic piece I pulled free.