Dinner progressed as could be expected.
Plates were cleared. Replaced. Cleared again. The consommé gave way to quail. The quail to lamb. The lamb to something richer still, glazed and fragrant beneath candlelight.
Conversation swelled and softened in turns. Monica smiled, nodded and laughed at appropriate intervals.
Michael's plate remained largely untouched.
He sampled. Cut precisely. Tasted sparingly. His wine glass remained nearly full, condensation untouched at its stem.
Across the table, Lila noticed it too.
But Monica noticed first.
A faint crease formed between her brows — quickly smoothed away.
When a lull in conversation presented itself, she leaned forward slightly, her tone light enough to pass as maternal concern.
"Michael, you've hardly eaten."
Several heads turned subtly.
"It would disappoint the chef," she added with a pleasant smile. "He has prepared everything especially for you."
Michael did not look at her immediately. He finished listening to the industrial magnate at his left, offered a brief, dismissive response, and only then shifted his gaze toward the head of the table.
"The circumstances surrounding this evening," he said evenly, "were arranged in such a way that I did not arrive with an appetite."
A few guests chuckled politely, assuming humor.
Monica's smile did not waver.
"You have always worked too much," she replied, as if indulgent. "At least try the lamb."
He held her gaze for one measured second too long.
Then, without argument, he cut another small portion and placed it in his mouth.
The matter appeared settled.
Monica leaned back.
She was not worried.
The dosage had not been delicate.
---
By the time the third course was served, a subtle restlessness had crept into her posture.
She noticed the faint flush rising beneath Michael's collar.
The way his jaw tightened slightly between sentences.
The way his fingers, usually still, flexed once against the stem of his glass.
Good.
A servant approached discreetly, bending toward her ear.
"Madam. Miss Turnpike's niece has arrived."
Monica rose at once, smoothing her gown.
"Continue without me," she told the table pleasantly.
---
April Somerset stood near the entrance of the grand staircase, posture loose, expression mildly impatient.
She was, indeed, dressed incorrectly.
Her gown lacked ornamentation. The cut too practical. The silhouette insufficiently flattering for the performance expected tonight.
Monica's eyes sharpened instantly.
"April," she said coolly, air-kissing near her cheek. "How… rustic."
April arched a brow but said nothing.
"You cannot present yourself at my table like this," Monica continued, lowering her voice. "There is a suitable gown prepared. I will show you the room."
Without waiting for argument, she guided the younger woman upstairs.
The door closed.
Monica descended alone.
---
Back in the dining hall, dessert preparations had begun.
Sugar-dusted pastries. Dark chocolate torte. Sliced tropical fruits arranged like sculpture.
Monica resumed her seat.
And studied her son.
The flush had deepened.
Michael's breathing had grown subtly heavier — not obvious, but perceptible to someone searching for it.
His focus fractured slightly.
Voices at the table seemed to overlap.
The chandelier light sharpened unnaturally, then blurred at the edges.
Heat gathered beneath his skin — not drunkenness, not illness.
Something else.
His collar felt constricting.
He loosened it a fraction.
Across the table, Lila noticed.
"Are you well?" she seemed to ask with her eyes and face expression.
"Perfectly," he replied, though the word emerged slower than intended.
The room felt warmer.
Too warm.
As he shifted in his seat, the doorway at the far end of the hall caught his attention.
A familiar figure stepped inside.
Rosa Sheridan.
But not as he remembered her.
Her uniform bore the subtle insignia of senior staff.
Headmaid.
His gaze sharpened briefly through the haze.
Interesting.
Monica noticed his line of sight.
And the moment he pressed his fingers briefly to his temple, she acted.
She darted a knowing look at Rosa to remind her of her post.
The headmaid approached Michael at once.
Michael saw it.
He did not catch the exact instruction; he did not need to. The coordination was too clean to be accidental.
Michael rose before assistance could touch him.
"I require no—"
The room tilted.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
He steadied himself on the back of the chair.
No one reacted.
The magnate beside him continued speaking mid-sentence. Silverware chimed against porcelain. A ripple of laughter traveled from the far end of the table.
To them, he had merely shifted his weight.
Michael Dantes did not falter.
He did not weaken.
He did not lose composure in public.
Rosa was suddenly at his side.
"If you would permit, sir," she said softly, as though acting entirely of her own initiative, "the corridor is cooler."
"Lead the way"
And this time, as he lifted his eyes toward his mother, he saw it.
Not concern.
Confirmation.
She smiled a fake smile at Michael.
---
The corridor beyond the dining hall was dimmer.
Cooler.
Rosa's hand hovered near his elbow — not quite touching.
"You are overheated," she said softly. "It happens."
Michael's thoughts were fragmenting into disjointed clarity.
Something is wrong.
But his pulse thundered, drowning precision.
They moved several paces down the corridor before the sound of the dining room dulled behind them — laughter muffled by distance, crystal reduced to a faint chime.
Michael stopped walking.
Rosa halted as well.
For a moment he stood very still, one hand braced against the wall.
Then, with abrupt irritation, he reached up and loosened his tie. The knot came undone in a sharp pull. He dragged it from his collar and let it hang loose around his neck.
His coat followed — shrugged off with impatient force and thrown over his arm.
The heat was unbearable.
He tore at the top buttons of his shirt.
One snapped free.
Then another.
They struck the marble floor and skittered into shadow.
Rosa inhaled sharply.
"Sir—"
He turned toward her.
Even flushed, even unsteady, there was nothing weak in his expression.
"You will forget," he said, his voice low but edged with steel, "whatever foolish arrangement you and my mother believe you are executing tonight."
The words were deliberate.
Measured.
Not slurred.
Rosa's composure flickered.
"I don't know what you mean—"
"You do."
His gaze pinned her in place.
"And it would be in your best interest to lead me out of this accursed mansion immediately."
The air between them shifted.
For a second, she considered something — calculation warring with instinct.
She had expected confusion.
Disorientation.
Compliance.
Not this.
And even beneath the heat clouding him, something colder radiated outward — a quiet, lethal clarity that made her pulse falter.
She was afraid of him.
Not of his current state.
Of what he would become if crossed. How he would react once he was over the influence of the aphrodisiac.
There was also another complication.
Upstairs.
April Somerset.
If he encountered April Somerset tonight — in this state, flushed and destabilized — the evening might still serve its purpose. But it would no longer serve hers.
Rosa had not forgotten what being a mistress to him once meant. Nor how easily it could happen once again.
An introduction upstairs would close doors she had only just seen reopen.
Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"This way," she said at last.
This time, she did not attempt to guide him inward.
She led him toward the rear staircase.
Down.
Away.
Michael walked under his own power, though each step required focus. The house seemed narrower now. The air too thick.
Servants glanced up as they passed, but none interfered.
By the time they reached the side entrance, his breathing had grown heavier.
Rosa opened the door.
Night air rushed against him — cool, bracing.
He inhaled deeply.
It helped.
Marginally.
They crossed the courtyard in tense silence.
A doorman stationed near the front steps noticed at once.
"Sir?"
Michael did not look at him.
"Assist me down the steps," he said curtly.
The command was automatic. Controlled.
The doorman hurried forward.
Rosa remained a step behind.
Michael descended carefully, one hand gripping the railing, the other clutching his discarded coat. The world tilted again — not enough to topple him, but enough to distort the edges of sight.
At the base of the stairs, his driver was already moving toward the rear door of the car.
Michael paused only once, using his hand to steady himself against the polished roof.
Behind him, the mansion blazed with light.
Music drifted faintly through open windows.
From a distance, it appeared celebratory.
Intact.
Untouched.
He turned to Rosa one final time.
"Tell my mother," he said quietly, "that this will be addressed."
There was no threat in his tone.
Only certainty.
Then he lowered himself into the back seat.
The door closed.
The car pulled away from the glow of the mansion, its headlights cutting through the darkened drive.
Inside the vehicle, alone at last, Michael leaned back against the leather.