The more Yvette ruminated on the empty screen, the more the seeds of panic took root. She moved through the corridors with a frantic urgency, her mind a blurred map of her own failing schemes. I need to see that room for myself. I need to know how the narrative I wrote was erased.

Behind her, Arielle watched the hurried retreat with a gaze as sharp and cold as a winter morning. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips—a silent acknowledgment that the game had moved into its final act.

“Ms. Moore, are you quite alright?” a nearby guest asked, noting Arielle’s sudden focus.

Arielle turned, her expression instantly melting into one of polite, curious engagement. “I’m perfectly fine. I was just marveling at the scale of the Actonwards' presentation. It’s quite bold to broadcast the estate’s interior so publicly, don’t you think?”

“Ms. Yvette is certainly considerate,” the guest replied warmly. “Some of the younger attendees were eager to see the design philosophy behind the private wings, and she was quick to accommodate them with this livestream. It’s quite the modern touch.”

Arielle shifted her gaze to the glowing screen. Indeed, the surveillance was comprehensive, intended to catch every fleeting movement. Yvette wanted a stage for a scandal, she thought, her eyes devoid of their usual warmth. It’s only fair that the stage remains, even if the leading lady has changed.

“I’d love to see the highlights of the other suites once the current cycle finishes,” Arielle said to the nearby steward, her voice a model of grace. “I missed the beginning of the presentation while I was refreshing myself upstairs.”

“Certainly, Ms. Moore. We’ll be looping the highlights shortly,” the steward assured her.

On the second floor, Yvette reached the suite. She didn't burst in immediately; she waited until the hallway monitor indicated the room was no longer being broadcast to the main hall. She needed a moment of private assessment.

The suite was a cathedral of silence. Yvette scanned the space, her eyes landing on the aromatherapy candle she had placed earlier. It was still burning, its faint, sweet scent clinging to the air. According to her source, the atmospheric effect should have peaked and settled by now, leaving anyone inside in a state of suggestible relaxation.

The setting is perfect, Yvette thought, her frustration mounting. So why did Arielle walk out of here as if she were stepping out of a spa?

She moved toward the bed, her mind racing for an explanation. Just as she was about to call Mason for an update, the sound of movement came from the adjoining dressing room. The door swung open, and a figure stumbled out into the dim light.

Yvette’s heart leaped. In the shadows and the lingering haze of the scented candles, the man’s silhouette seemed familiar—tall, broad-shouldered, carrying a presence she had long associated with her former fiancé.

“Jordan?” she whispered, her voice a mix of incredulous joy and shock. Did he come here to find me? Is this his way of telling me he regrets the broken engagement?

For a heartbeat, she allowed herself to believe the illusion, her vision clouded by her own desperate ambitions. But as the man stepped into a sliver of moonlight, the reality crystallized. It wasn't Jordan.

It was Mason. He looked disoriented, as if he had just woken from a deep, unplanned slumber. He blinked at Yvette, his mouth opening to ask what had happened to the plan, but before he could speak, Yvette was already crossing the room.

Driven by a complex surge of adrenaline and the need to maintain some form of control over the crumbling night, she approached him. “Why are you still here?” she asked, her voice hushed but intense. “And why is the room empty?”

Mason seized up, caught off guard by the frantic energy radiating from her. In that moment, neither of them realized that downstairs, the projection loop was about to reset, and the eyes of the entire gala were once again turning toward the West Wing.