Mohamad touches the wetness on his left cheek. His fingers pause. Tears. He doesn't remember them falling.
His brows draw together slightly. Irritation. The reaction is unfamiliar. Uncontrolled. Unacceptable. He studies the moisture on his fingertips as if it belongs to someone else. Where is this coming from?
The question forms—but he doesn't pursue it. Analysis would require acknowledgment. He refuses that.
His eyes close once. Slow. Controlled. He breathes in. Breath out. Suppression. Containment. The sensation dulls, but something remains—tight, hollow, unresolved.
His eyes open. Action. He needs action.
He reaches for his phone. "Find the owner of that lipstick."
Jason's voice comes through, rough with sleep. "What lipstick? What's going—"
Mohamad ends the call.
Jason will figure it out. He always does.
He lowers the phone and turns toward the bed. Perfectly made. Untouched. Empty. No. He wouldn't sleep anyway. He hasn't—since. He stops the thought before it completes. Every time he closes his eyes—the sound returns. Her voice. Her crying. Soft. Breaking. It intrudes without permission. Disrupts equilibrium. He doesn't understand why it persists.
His jaw tightens. Sleep is inefficient. He turns away. The gym.
—
Jason rubs the sleep from his eyes, already dialing. It rings. No answer. He tries again. Still nothing.
He stares at the message thread. No reply. Nine days now. Whatever happened between them—no one explained it. But he doesn't need explanation. The signs are obvious.
Mohamad isn't sleeping. Barely eating. Training excessively. Silent. Irritable. Focus impaired. Depressed.
Jason exhales and gets dressed. There's only one place he'll be. The gym.
—
He's right. Mohamad is already there. Repetition. Mechanical. Leg lifts. Crunches. No pacing. No rest. Just movement—like he's trying to exhaust something internal.
Jason leans against the equipment. "I can't trace anything if you don't give me a timeline. Places—"
"The Bulgari Hotel London. Ten days ago." Mohamad doesn't stop moving. "My shirt had a lipstick stain. Find the culprit."
Jason stills. Lipstick. Ten days. His eyes widen slightly. Ace.
Jason moves immediately. This needs resolution before Mohamad drives himself into collapse. He glances once more at Mohamad's relentless crunches—controlled, punishing, unsustainable—then steps away and makes the call.
The location narrows the window. The timeline narrows the staff list. VIP floor. Restricted access. Personal service rotation. Two hours later, Jason has the answer. Mohamad's luggage is handled only by staff assigned to VIP suites. Cross-referencing shift logs, service records, and camera access, Jason isolates the individual responsible for packing Mohamad's suitcase that morning.
Name: Lucy FairchildAge: twenty-sevenPosition: VIP suite attendantStatus: single mother
Jason scans further. Two years ago — complaint filed by a high-tier guest. Harassment. Lucy refused. The guest demanded termination. Management prepared dismissal paperwork.
Mohamad intervened. The complaint disappeared. The guest was blacklisted. Lucy retained. Reassigned to discretionary VIP support. Since then — whenever Mohamad stays at the Bulgari — she's assigned to his floor.
Jason's jaw tightens slightly.
He brings the file to the gym. Mohamad doesn't stop moving when Jason approaches. Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt. His breathing remains steady. Controlled. Too controlled.
Jason hands him the report. Mohamad takes it mid-crunch. Reads.
His movements slow. Once. Then stop. His eyes settle on the name.
Lucy Fairchild.
His gaze darkens—not anger. Not recognition. Something colder. Calculating. Displeased.
Jason watches carefully.
"She packed my luggage?" he asks.
"Yes."
Silence.
He hands the file back. "Remove her."
Jason blinks. "Remove—"
"From VIP access. From my floors. From any property I stay at."
His tone remains even. Controlled. Administrative.
Jason hesitates. "She didn't actually—"
"She touched my clothing." Mohamad's voice stays quiet. "Without authorization."
A beat.
"That's sufficient."
Jason studies him. This is personal. "What about her employment?" Jason asks carefully.
Mohamad doesn't answer immediately. His gaze returns to the floor. Then—"Transfer her."
"Where?"
"Somewhere she won't encounter me again."
A pause.
"Permanently."
Jason exhales slowly. Understood.
Mohamad resumes his crunches.
But after two repetitions, he stops again. "Wait."
Jason stills.
"Was she wearing the lipstick?"
"Yes."
Silence.
His eyes darken further. "Have HR issue a professionalism violation," he adds. "Cosmetics contamination. Personal contact with guest belongings."
Jason understands. That goes on record. It follows her. Limits future placements. Not firing. But controlled damage. Career containment.
Mohamad resumes moving again. Mechanical. Uninterrupted. "Make sure she understands," he adds quietly.
Jason pauses. "Understands what?"
Jason turns to leave.
"From now on—" Mohamad's voice cuts in.
Jason stops.
"No woman touches my personal belongings." A pause. Then, quieter—more deliberate: "Unless it's Ace."
Silence settles.
The meaning is clear. Ownership. Boundaries. Redefined.
"Should I call her? Tell her about—"
"No."
The answer comes too fast. Mohamad stops. The movement is subtle. Barely noticeable. His hands remain behind his head, body still angled mid-crunch. "Did she…" He doesn't finish. His jaw tightens. He forces it out. "…has she contacted you?"
Jason hesitates. That alone is answer enough. "No. In fact, she's been ignoring my calls and text messages. She reads them. But… no response."
Silence.
Mohamad doesn't move. The air tightens. Something shifts — not visible, but felt. His chest rises once. Controlled. Too controlled.
Ignoring. Not avoiding. Not unreachable. Ignoring.
His eyes close briefly. The word settles somewhere deeper than he allows himself to examine. She read them. And chose not to respond.
His jaw hardens. The restraint returns instantly, sealing whatever reaction tried to surface. "Stop contacting her," he says quietly.
Jason blinks. "You want me to—"
"Stop."
A beat.
"If she wants to speak… she will."
He resumes the crunch.
Down. Up. Down. Up.
But the rhythm is no longer perfectly even.