Catalina’s chin lifted a little. Behind her gentle, calm eyes, something flared inside stubbornly.

I already told you before, she thought, holding his gaze without flinching. Watch me.

But that was a thought she kept behind her teeth. In their years of marriage, she already knew when to push and when to wait.

Geron was already wound tight enough that any resistance now would only make him dig his heels in further.

So Catalina did what she did best. She pretended to have softened up.

"Of course," she said, and nodded compliantly. "But be careful."

Geron stared at her face suspiciously, but Catalina just smiled back at him.

After a while, a long breath left Geron through his nose.

"I’m going," he said as he turned around and walked toward the front entrance.

He didn’t slow down, didn’t waver, and didn’t look back.

The door opened, and he went out, letting the door automatically close behind him.

Catalina listened to the fading sound of his footsteps. Then the muted hum of the engine of a hover car. She waited until she could hear nothing else.

She walked to the chair Geron had been sitting in—still warm from his body—and sat on it.

Catalina stared at the door.

He really didn’t look back.

Something in her chest tightened with a dull, persistent ache spreading over time. It was only now that it had become impossible to ignore.

Catalina could feel their marriage cracking. After all of this, no matter the outcome, it was already set in stone that they would separate from each other.

Since it’s already cracking, she thought, her fingers curling around the armrest, what good does it do to keep listening to him even as a habit?

When Geron said the military would handle it, she would step back.

When he said it was too dangerous, she would trust his judgment.

When he came home defeated by stress and silence, she would pour his tea and ask nothing.

All these years, she had been the dutiful wife of a Baron.

In the end, her family, her daughter, was still taken away. Was put in the center of chaos despite leaving the military a long time ago.

Catalina turned on her light brain. The holographic display washed her face in pale blue as she navigated to her private messages.

She quickly found what she was looking for—a message from Lilianna, sent the day before. It was a short message, probably made in a hurry.

Mom. I’m okay. A friend took me somewhere to get healed. Don’t worry about me.

Catalina read the message again and again, dismantling each word.

A friend took me. Not "I went with a friend." Passive voice. Acted upon, not acting.

Somewhere. No location. No details. No invitation to come. She probably didn’t even know where she was taken away to.

Don’t worry about me. Meant that she should worry about her.

Catalina switched to Sarah’s message and expanded the photograph until it filled the display.

Lilianna was standing in what appeared to be a luxury estate interior.

However, she looked a little angry. She didn’t look like she was standing at ease or relaxed.

It looked like she was standing in the middle of a room full of people who might or might not be her allies.

She chose to show up at this time...

Catalina’s mind sharpened. To suddenly appear in a private social gathering, in a private state where Sarah was, and photos could be taken.

She’s sending a signal.

Not to her father but to her mother. Because Lilianna thinks that her father, Geron, would make a big deal out of it and would cause further damage.

She wants me, her mom, to come get her. Discretely.

Catalina stared at the photograph for one more long moment—and made her decision.

She rose from the chair. She was not the kind of woman who would sit still when her children needed her.

As she moved around, pulling on an outer coat that was warmer than it looked, slipping a small emergency kit into her inner pocket, and changing her shoes for something she could use to run.

She reached the door. She paused just long enough to glance back at the living room where she could see Geron’s empty chair—and then she stepped into the night.

○●○●

Just as Lilianna was contemplating whether to agree or not, Neville suddenly raised his hand, flat, open, with a paper shape, grinning.

Lilianna looked at him, confused.

"But there’s a catch," Neville said with a smile of a man who was completely enjoying himself, "I’m only going to play paper."

He waggled his open hand for emphasis.

Five fingers spread wide.

Paper.

The estate’s living room had become an impromptu arena.

Bryan and Iris sat next to Sarah on the sofa.

Sarah folded her legs like a satisfied cat.

Colonel Vane claimed the empty spot next to Sarah, near Helena, drinking.

Helena and Ciel sat on the sofa watching.

Thiago and Julius sat on the sofa near the exit.

On the bar table, Grayson sat with one arm hanging along the table. His eyes were just looking at Neville, utterly enjoying his antics.

"You’re going to play paper, is that right?" Lilianna repeated, slowly.

"Mm-hm."

"Every time."

"Only Paper."

"Are you treating me like I’m an idiot?"

"Am I?"

Lilianna’s mind slammed into a wall.

Because she knew that Neville was right. This wasn’t an idiotic move.

Rather, it was something worse.

If Neville was telling the truth—if he genuinely intended to play paper every single round—then the optimal counter was scissors.

Lilianna would win. Easily. Without effort or suspense.

But that was only true if Neville was telling the truth.

And if he wasn’t—if this was a feint, a psychological maneuver designed to make her choose scissors while he actually threw rock—then she would lose.

But she would look like an idiot for trusting him, and this would prove that Neville didn’t trust her.

The game had stopped being about intuition. It had stopped being about chance.

It was about trust.

Told you, the voice murmured, sounding insufferably pleased. He’s clever.