Michael managed to fall asleep a little while after the clock had struck ten.
The water had helped and so did the quiet of being in the privacy of a hotel room.
For a few hours, everything that had been chaotic now felt quite manageable.
At one in the morning, he woke up abruptly.
Not groggy.
Awake.
Fully. It was as if his body had jolted him awake.
Heat flooded him before he could even orient himself. It wasn't the mild warmth from earlier. This was sharper. Insistent. It moved through him like a current, settling low in his body and refusing to be ignored.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
His skin felt too sensitive against the sheets. The air felt thick. Every small sensation registered too clearly — the brush of fabric against his waist, the slow drag of his own breathing, the pulse beating steadily in his throat.
He looked at the little clock beside his bed, saw 1:17am and pushed himself upright.
"Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath.
The water had only delayed it. Of course it had.
His legs hit the ground over the edge of the bed and stood. The room felt too small now.
He got up and run both hands back through his hair slightly incredulous at the persistent and powerful effect it was having on him.
The movement did nothing to settle the restless energy buzzing beneath his skin.
If anything, it made him more aware of it.
He walked to the window in order to open it again. It cooled his face but didn't touch the heat coiled lower. His thoughts were still precise. His body was not.
He tried pacing.
That didn't help either.
After a minute of pretending he could out-will it, he picked up the phone and called reception.
"Yes, Mr. Dantes?"
"Has Dr. Hargrove arrived?" he asked, voice steady — though it took more effort than he liked.
"One moment, sir… Yes. He is here. He's accompanied by another gentleman."
"Send him up."
He hung up and dragged a hand down his face.
Perfect.
There was a knock within minutes.
He opened the door to find Mr. James standing straight as ever — though his eyes were scanning Michael carefully and with deep concern— and beside him, Dr. Hargrove, who looked far less composed.
"Michael," the doctor said immediately as they stepped in. "You look flushed."
"I am flushed," Michael replied dryly, stepping aside so they could enter.
The door closed behind them.
Hargrove set his bag down and moved closer, his expression shifting from concern to something almost fatherly. He had known Michael since he was a boy scraping his knees on estate gravel. He'd patched up broken arms and stitched careless teenage cuts. He'd been present at more milestones than some relatives.
"What are you feeling?" the doctor asked quietly.
Michael hesitated only briefly.
"Restless," he said. "Overstimulated. Everything feels… amplified."
Dr Hargrove nodded slowly.
"Any unusual taste in the food last night?"
"There was a slight bitterness under one of the courses. Subtle. Easy to miss."
Mr. James's hands tightened behind his back.
"And now?" the doctor prompted gently.
Michael looked to the side and studied the oriental carpet of the hotel, half irritated, half embarrassed despite himself.
"My body seems to have developed ambitions my mind did not authorize."
Dr Hargrove did not smile. He began checking his pulse, blood pressure, eyes — moving efficiently but with obvious care.
As he worked, Mr. James stood by, his concern deepening.
He could not wrap his mind around it. He and his wife had raised their sons with patience, with steadiness. The idea of using something experimental on them for leverage — for strategy — was unthinkable.
Neither he nor Mrs James, would ever dream of doing such a thing to their own sons, only a few years younger than Michael.
And, for what? To corner him into some alliance? To push him toward some girl Mrs. Mansfield preferred?
The thought made his jaw clench.
Dr Hargrove worked efficiently — blood pressure cuff, penlight, small vials prepared with practiced hands. He drew blood while asking measured questions, noting each response with a furrowed brow.
"I won't lie to you," he said after a moment. "If this is what I think it is, it isn't life-threatening."
Michael raised an eyebrow.
"And?"
"And you may be in for a rather unpleasant few days."
"Define unpleasant."
The doctor sighed.
"There's a compound in development at Mansfield Pharmaceuticals. I've heard about it in passing. It's not for humans."
Michael's eyes sharpened despite the situation.
"Then what is it for?"
"Tigers."
Silence.
"Excuse me?" Michael said.
"It's designed to stimulate reproductive drive in endangered tiger populations," Hargrove explained. "Their numbers are declining rapidly. The compound was meant to assist breeding efforts under controlled conditions."
For a second, Michael just stared at him.
Then he started laughing.
Not a polite chuckle.
A genuine laugh.
He leaned forward from the edge of the bed, pushing his fingers through his dark hair, shaking his head.
"Tigers," he repeated, almost in disbelief.
Mr. James looked horrified.
"She saw something designed to encourage endangered tigers to reproduce," Michael continued, still half laughing, "and thought, 'Yes! That should work on my son!'"
"Sir," Mr. James said, dropping his usual formality. "This is serious."
"I know it's serious," Michael replied, wiping the sweat from his brow as the laughter faded. "That's what makes it absurd."
Dr Hargrove crossed his arms.
"If my suspicion is correct, the effects will surge and dip over the next five to eight days."
"So this isn't over tonight."
"No."
Michael exhaled, this time not coldly — just tired.
"She really is desperate," he said quietly. "Desperate enough to experiment on me because she wants control. Because she wants to dictate the outcome."
"She must have seen that file in the factory and thought she'd found the perfect solution. I'm an endangered tiger now, apparently", Michael said with a sarcastic laugh.
"And she's the hunter trying to drive me into the right enclosure."
Mr. James's voice softened, almost fatherly.
"Mrs. Monica Mansfield is entering dangerous territory."
Dr Hargrove nodded. "I agree."
"Yes," he said. "She certainly is."
The doctor snapped his case shut.
"I'll do more than speculate. I'll contact colleagues. Get proper data instead of rumors. Where will you be?"
"At the Dantes estate tomorrow."
"I'll come see you in three days. Sooner if necessary."
Michael showed his assent.
Dr Hargrove hesitated, then placed a warm, steady hand on his shoulder — not clinical, but affectionate.
"Try to rest," he said.
"I'll try."
The doctor left.
Mr. James lingered.
He had been observing Michael for some minutes.
There was something almost youthful about him in this state — hair messy, shirt open at the collar, expression animated instead of composed. For once, he didn't look like the contained, overly serious man James had grown used to.
He looked his age.
And in some strange way, that eased something in James's chest.
"Sir," he said after a moment.
"Yes?"
"Is there anything you would like for me to do?"
"Yes."
Michael straightened slightly.
"Rosa was headmaid tonight."
"I see."
"I want you to go back and bring her to the estate. Personally."
"In the morning?"
"In the morning itself. Don't call ahead. Don't give her time to coordinate with my mother. Tell her everything she needs will be provided."
Mr. James understood immediately.
"If she has time, she'll align her story."
"Exactly."
James nodded firmly. "I'll handle it."
He left.
The door clicked shut.
Michael lay back down on the bed.
Tigers.
He started laughing again, softer this time.
"She really thought that was clever," he said to himself.
The laughter dissolved into a dull ache behind his eyes.
Headache.
He pressed his fingers to his temple and winced slightly.
He hadn't eaten properly all evening.
Brilliant.
He reached for the phone once more.
"Room service."
"Yes, sir?"
"Bring me up some avgolemono, will you?"
"Right away."
He set the phone down and leaned back against the headboard.
The restless heat was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but now it was mixed with hunger and fatigue and something almost ridiculous about the entire situation.
Endangered tiger.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
Monica was going to realize very soon that she had wandered far out of her depth.
And when she did, he suspected she wouldn't find it nearly as amusing as he did.
A knock came sooner than expected. Michael went to open the door.
The server was young — mid-twenties, perhaps — dark hair pulled into a sleek low bun, uniform neat and sharply pressed. Her eyes widened just slightly when she took him in: shirt collar open, hair disordered, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms.
"Good evening, sir," she said, her voice smoothing into something just a touch warmer than strictly professional.
"Thank you," he replied simply, stepping aside.
She wheeled the tray in and the scent filled the room rather quickly— lemon, chicken broth, something rich and nutritious.
She set the tray on the small table by the window, steam curled upward. The soup was pale gold, silky and luminous under the room's soft lighting. A thin shimmer of olive oil caught at the surface. Fresh pepper had been cracked over it. A small dish of warm bread sat beside it and a pat of butter already softening at the edges.
"I hope it's to your liking," she said, glancing up at him as she adjusted the bowl's placement. "It's one of our best."
"I'm sure it will be," he said.
Her gaze lingered a fraction longer than necessary.
If you need anything else during the night, Mr. Dantes," she added, a subtle emphasis on his name, "just call."
He met her eyes briefly.
"Thank you."
No smile. But not cold. Just steady.
There was nothing encouraging in his tone, but nothing dismissive either.
Enjoy your meal," she said, and turned toward the door. The room felt quieter again once it closed behind her.
Michael sat down and lifted the spoon.
The lemon cut cleanly through the richness of the egg-thickened broth. Tender pieces of chicken, soft grains of rice suspended throughout.
For a few minutes, the absurdity of the night — experimental compounds, endangered tigers, a cunning mother — faded behind something almost ordinary.
A man in a quiet hotel room.
Eating soup at one in the morning.
He finished the bowl.
Michael stood, carried the tray toward the door, and left it outside in the hallway.
When he returned to the bed, he didn't bother correcting the disarray of the sheets.
And sometime before the sky began to pale, Michael drifted back into sleep.