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She looks toward the door as if she expects it to open again.

I fix my trousers, then step in front of her before she can stare at it too long. “He won’t come back in,” I say.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Her eyes come to mine. She is pale now, not frightened exactly, but exposed in a way I don’t like. A few minutes ago, she was warm and flushed against the shelves, trying not to make a sound while I had my hand over her mouth. Now she is smoothing her dress with shaking fingers as if she can put the whole moment back where it belongs.

I catch her hands.

“Elara.”

“That’s not normal.”

“He is trained to be discreet.”

Her face changes. “Discreet.”

“Yes.”

She pulls one hand free and rubs at her cheek, embarrassed now, angry too. “That’s a very elegant word for walking in on your employer having sex and pretending you saw a misplaced umbrella.”

“He apologized.”

“He barely reacted.”

“That’s usually preferable.”

“To you.”

I don’t answer quickly enough.

Her eyes narrow a little. “Has this happened before?”

The question is quiet. It should be easy to answer. No. That’s what I should say.

Not because it’s happened like this. It hasn’t. Not with Elara. Not with anyone who mattered. But I have lived most of my adult life in houses full of staff, guards, drivers, doctors, cleaners, men waiting outside doors and women looking away at the right moments. Privacy in my world is rarely natural. It is managed. Paid for. Enforced.

Elara watches my face and understands enough to be hurt by what she doesn’t know. “So yes,” she says.

“No.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“Not like this.”

The words are wrong the second they leave my mouth.

I know because her expression shuts. “Not like me,” she says.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It sounded exactly like what you meant.”

“Elara.”

She steps back before I can touch her again. “No, it’s fine. I understand. Different category. Very flattering.”