The perfume still lingered.
Grace had hidden the bottle away, locked in a velvet-lined drawer where even Eva wouldn't think to look. But it didn't matter. The scent clung to her like a second skin. It filled her sheets, her hair, the back of her throat.
She didn't dream that night. Or maybe she did, just the kind you don't remember but wake from sweating, heart thundering.
The next morning, she arrived at the Élan Mode studio for a campaign shoot, perfectly polished. A short beige trench over a black satin slip dress, heels clicking against concrete like punctuation. Her eyes were lined, lashes curled, and not a strand of her black ponytail out of place. She wore her armor well, built of silk, poise, and a silence that could cut.
Silas was already there, unexpectedly. Not for her, officially. He was visiting Tristian, who had been roped in for a brand campaign Eva insisted he do. Dressed in a charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair wind-swept and camera-ready, Silas stood next to Tristian, who was charming the crew, handing out coffees like he was everyone's golden retriever with perfect teeth and a heart made of chamomile.
Grace's eyes flicked to Silas. He was looking at her like he always did, too deeply. As if trying to memorize the outlines of her bones beneath her skin. It wasn't admiration. It was cataloging. A slow autopsy of the soul.
Eva arrived ten minutes later, hair down, phone buzzing in one hand. She greeted Grace with a knowing smirk.
"You look like you just survived a hurricane and decided to model for Vogue."
"Is that your poetic way of saying I'm glowing?" Grace replied.
"Glowing. Haunted. Same thing."
Tristian peeled away from the crew and sauntered toward them. "Eva, I got you an oat milk cappuccino. Just how you hate it."
She arched an eyebrow. "Why are you trying so hard to bribe me?"
"Because I think under all that sass and caffeine, there's a heart that could maybe one day not despise me."
Eva took the cup, sipped it, then deadpanned, "Still hate you. But this is decent."
Tristian grinned like he'd won a war.
Silas watched the exchange with amusement, but his eyes kept drifting to Grace. As if trying to decide what version of her he was getting today.
Grace moved like she knew all the eyes were on her. But beneath her grace, there was tension, a sharp, invisible line pulled too tight. She excused herself and stepped into a side room, supposedly to check her phone, but really to breathe. The perfume clung to her still, almost mocking her.
A knock on the open door. Silas.
He stepped in, quiet, deliberate. "You smell like something familiar," he said softly.
She froze for just a second. Then smiled. "Memory tends to play tricks."
He leaned in, not touching, just hovering, invading gently. "Or maybe you play them."
Their eyes met in the mirror.
"You shouldn't be here," she murmured, lips barely moving.
"Neither should you," he replied.
Grace turned slowly, taking a step back. But it wasn't fear. It was theatre. And Silas? He lived for the performance.
Outside, the click of cameras, the whirl of fans, the artificial glamour of fashion pulsed on. But in that room, it was two predators circling. One aware. The other obsessively enchanted.
Later, during a wardrobe break, Grace sat with Eva on the balcony upstairs, both with iced coffees in hand.
"Silas is watching you again," Eva said without looking up from her phone.
"He always watches."
"And you always let him."
Grace didn't reply. But her fingers tightened around the glass.
Downstairs, Tristian was handing out lighthearted compliments and laughing with stylists, the picture of calm and warmth. He glanced up at the balcony where Eva sat and gave her a mock salute.
"You sure you don't like him?" Grace asked.
"Positive," Eva smirked. "But I do enjoy watching him try."
Grace smiled faintly, but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
Later that day, when Silas finally left the studio, Grace exhaled slowly, almost like she hadn't realized she was holding her breath the entire time.
Because the perfume still lingered. And so did he.