Not in clothing. Without it.
The thought lands clean. Sharp. Uncomplicated. And entirely unacceptable.
I shut it down immediately. Because it serves no function. Because she’s Irish. Because she was meant to marry my son. Because she’s not anything I’m permitted to consider beyond what she is. A variable. A problem. A presence that requires control.
Not…
I step forward, closing the distance enough to make the interaction intentional. “Miss Brennan.”
“Don Vitale.” Her voice is steady, her posture unchanged. She doesn’t step back.
That’s the third problem.
“You’re outside your wing,” I say.
“I was returning to it.”
“From where?”
“The window,” she says. Not a lie. Not an answer.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“And yet I am.”
A pause. She watches me the way she watches everything. Not as a man, as a system. As something to understand. To map. To use.
I should end the interaction. Redirect. Reinforce boundaries.
“What did you see?” I ask.
Her gaze flicks briefly toward the garden, then back. “Enough,” she says.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one that matters.”
Another pause.
“You’ll return to your rooms,” I say.
“Yes.”
She doesn’t move immediately. Neither do I. The moment stretches. Unnecessary. Unstructured.
Then she turns. Walks past me. Close enough that I register the details I should not. The absence of hesitation. The control in her movement. The fact that she doesn’t rush. Doesn’t retreat. Just… continues.
I remain where I am until she disappears down the corridor.
Then I move. Not toward her—away. Because distance is required. Because the system doesn’t account for distraction.
Because that thought I had earlier will not happen again.
* * *
By evening, the reports return. Filtered. Refined. Incomplete.
And I read them the same way. What’s included. What’s not. And the space between them. Where she moves. Where I allow it. Where this ends.
