_The invitation arrived at the cathedral hospital the next afternoon, delivered by a silent courier in an immaculate black suit. The envelope was heavy cream paper sealed with crimson wax bearing a stylized V. Inside, in elegant handwriting that looked centuries old, were the words:
Dinner. Tonight. My estate.
Come as you are.
— R.
Cattleya stared at the note for a long moment in the quiet of the staff lounge, her thumb tracing the raised wax seal. Part of her — the disciplined, faithful part trained by her father — knew she should burn it. The other part, the one that still remembered the taste of Rusty’s mouth and the way his fingers had brought her undone the night before, folded the note carefully and slipped it into her coat pocket.
She told herself it was research. Observation.
