“Dim sum,” I tell her, twirling the last sip of wine in the glass. We’re having dinner again downstairs in Beau Ciel, because it’s the only restaurant she can visit. For now. “They have dumplings with pork and lotus root. It comes fresh from the kitchen, still steaming as they bring it around to the tables.”

It feels explicit to describe this food to her, especially the way her eyes have turned soft and sensual, the sage green she gives me when she’s going to come. “Don’t,” she whispers.

“You pick one up with your chopsticks. Have you used chopsticks before? No matter, you can use your fingers. The dumpling will be soft and round, but tightly held. You can bring it to your lips and—”

She makes a squeak. There’s no other word for the sound. Like a mouse. “I can’t go. I want to, I mean I really want to, but it’s not as simple as that.”

“But no, I can have my car pulled around in two minutes flat.”

“I would have a panic attack.”

I can tell from the earnestness in her voice that she believes this. However I can also tell that she needs to overcome this, that she will never fully be living until she does. It’s not only the fact of her existence in L’Etoile’s marble walls. Perhaps another woman would be content here. It’s the hunger in her eyes that becomes stronger every time I speak of a new thing she could experience if she left.

Bea must leave, and somehow I’ve made it my mission to have her do it.

“Is there something we could do for a panic? Perhaps a breathing technique. Or a medicine.”

She’s already shaking her head. “There’s nothing.”

I give her a dubious look. “How can you be sure? They have many advancements. And when is the last time you tried to leave?”

She picks at her steak. From here I can see that it’s perfectly cooked. Juicy. And completely terrible to a woman who can have only this and a small menu besides. “It may have been a while but that’s only because I learned my boundaries. I remember how it felt.”

“And how was that?”

“Like dying.”

That is no small feat to overcome, then. “Have I told you about the little shop off Fifth Street? They serve a green tea gelato pressed between two fresh lavender macarons.”

Her eyes are darker again. It’s the sex look. I’ve been dreaming about it. My nights are filled with moss and fog. I’m searching for something, for someone, but never satisfied.

“I’ll have it delivered,” she says.

I give her a look. “Non. You will have melting gelato and soggy cookies.”

“You don’t understand.”

“So explain it to me. You must have some kind of doctor, yes? What does he say?”

“I have a psychologist, yes. She comes to visit me once a month.”

“This time you will explain you wish to leave.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re very bossy.”

I take her hand from across the table. “I would not dare to boss you. I only want to help. The way you look at me, it seems like you want that, too.”

She sighs. “Oh yes. Yes. But it’s impossible.”

Building an incredible celebrity without ever leaving this building, that’s impossible. Hiring an overpriced escort to take her sweet virginity, impossible. This woman does impossible things.

A sudden stroke of inspiration has me sitting up straight. “What about a piano? Don’t you wish to play on pianos other than your own?”

Her stricken expression is almost enough to stop me. Almost.

“Bellmont,” comes a low voice behind me.

I turn, startled to recall that we aren’t alone. There’s Damon Scott, the proprietor of the Den. He’s a powerful and dangerous man in this city. And apparently, one of the diners at Beau Ciel tonight.

My stomach tightens. I have been seen with my clients before. Of course I have. In some ways I am like an expensive crocodile leather purse. I am the toy breed dog they carry inside. Something to show how wealthy and fabulous they are. There is no shame for them, or for me, but Bea is different.

If they give her a snide look I’m not sure what I will do.

But the woman on Damon Scott’s arm—I remember her name, Penny—she smiles at us. “Did I hear you mention pianos? We have a beautiful Bluthner grand in the library. I can’t play but we keep it tuned in case someone else can.”

Bea’s lips form an O of undisguised longing. “That would be incredible, but… I really can’t. I’m sorry.”

Damon smiles genially, though he must remember my profession. And he must guess who Bea is to me. “It’s perfectly fine. Anytime you wish to come, have Hugo bring you.”

“Thank you,” I tell him softly.

“A friend of yours is a friend of ours,” Damon answers at the same volume.

I could not say what Bea is to me. A friend? A lover? But she is more than just a client, and I have not even taken her virginity yet. What will happen when I breach her hymen? It should be a purely physical act, but I’m discovering more and more that nothing is ever as simple as it seems with her.

“Bea is a very talented musician,” I tell them.

“Oh, it must run in the family,” Penny says brightly. All three of us stare at her for a surprised beat, and her lips twist. “Did I say something wrong?”

“How did you know?” I manage to ask, because Bea looks too shocked to respond.

Penny scrunches her nose. “Was I not supposed to say anything? I’m sorry. It’s just that your father was so amazing. His work on computational lexicon is basically legend. I read his biography so I know about his wife and that he had a daughter. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, it’s fine,” Bea assures her, recovering her voice. “Truly. I was only surprised because people don’t usually recognize me unless they see my full name.”

“You have his eyes,” Penny says, as if offering a confession.

That makes Bea smile a little. “I know. And thank you for remembering him this way. It’s really such a gift that you remember him for the good in his life instead of…”

Instead of his tragic death.

Damon clears his throat. “I’ll see you at the Den, Bellmont?”

“Tomorrow,” I murmur, unable to take my eyes from Bea’s melancholy expression.

And then we are alone. “Who’s your father?” I ask softly.

“Arthur Cartwright.”

I know him immediately, though I never would have linked the tech magnate with Silicon Valley origins to the timid young woman trapped in a tower in Tanglewood. “The inventor.”

She nods. “The only thing he loved more than his work is my mother.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, knowing the memories are dark.

“I meant what I said. I’m glad that he can be remembered for the things he accomplished. I don’t think I’ve lived up to the family name, anyway. Not with the way I’m stuck here. The way I panic at even the thought of going outside.”

“We can go to the Den. I would stay with you every second.”

She laughs, though the sound wrenches my heart. “It’s impossible, Hugo.”

I do not argue with words, but she knows my thoughts.

“Come upstairs,” she offers, and my arguments evaporate into nothing. There is only her offer and the powerful knowledge in her eyes. Tonight.