Chandeliers threw slow gold over cut crystal and warmed marble in the corridor outside, but in here the lamps were low and the air still carried the ghost of hundreds of foreign perfumes. A single window stood uncurtained, city lights smeared against the glass like wet paint.

Draco had not spoken since the hallway. He'd walked a half-step behind you the whole way — close enough that his signet ring caught the light, far enough that any late-leaving guest would have seen only a gentleman, correct and unbothered.

That half-step held even now, in the entry of his parents' guest suite, as he shed his evening jacket with the precise economy of a man undressing in a mirror. He folded it once, laid it over the arm of a chair. Loosened the top button of his collar with two fingers. His rings stayed on.