Night had bruised the sky by the time Romy and Monty re-entered the Grand Étoile. A low fog hugged Lake Lucerne; every street-lamp flickered like a dying candle, mirroring the hush that had fallen between them. In the glass-paneled lift, Monty stole measured glances at his brother-in-law, now certain something inside Romy had snapped shut like a vault.
Normally Romy filled silence with gentle chatter, commenting on the pastry display, teasing Monty's pronunciation of merci. Tonight he stared straight ahead, shoulders squared, jaw clenched so tight a pulse throbbed at his temple. Even the ding at the seventh floor failed to stir him.
They stepped into the corridor. Romy paused near the emergency-exit balcony, fishing a slim cigarette from his coat. He almost never smoked; the gesture alone made Monty's stomach knot.
"Romy?" Monty's voice was soft, afraid the sound itself might shatter the man beside him.
Romy struck a match, inhaled, exhaled a pale ribbon of smoke, eyes fixed on the city lights.
Monty tried again. "You've hardly spoken since we left the bar's security office. Did something happen after I, I barged in?"
Romy answered without turning. "I have work to do tonight." His tone was careful, the way diplomats thread needle-thin truths through iron doors. "I'll be out late."
A gale of cold air rattled the balcony door. Monty wrapped his arms around himself. "Can I help?"
Romy shook his head, crushed the cigarette half-finished, and offered a brittle smile. "Sleep well." He pulled on a charcoal jacket, collar up, and strode for the lift,.
Monty watched until the elevator swallowed him, a coppery fear pooling in his chest. Who phoned you, Romy? What scar did they reopen? But the marble floor gave no answer, and the lift cables hummed their indifferent song.
11:52 p.m. Room 367, Park Bellevue
Suresh left the door unlatched on purpose, like a hunter baiting a trap. Lamplight cut ochre triangles across his bare chest; the rest of him was wrapped in a white hotel sheet knotted scandalously low at the hip. A half-empty bottle of bourbon sweated on the coffee table, beside two tumblers and a crystal bowl of cherries no one intended to eat.
The lock clicked behind Romy.
"You came back," Suresh purred, stepping forward, sheet swishing. "I knew you would."
Romy's skin prickled. He had changed from cashmere to a simple black tee and jeans, nothing Suresh could later interpret as invitation. "I'm here to finish what you started," he said quietly. "You'll name your price, I'll pay, and we walk away strangers."
Suresh's smile curved, lazy and cruel. "My price has not changed, my love. Thirty minutes… and your mouth."
He closed the distance, fingers sliding along Romy's nape. The touch used to ignite fireworks; now it felt like grime beneath fingernails. Romy lifted a hand to push him back, but Suresh seized the hesitation and crashed their lips together.
The taste of bourbon and desperation flooded Romy's senses. He turned his face aside. "Enough," he warned, breath ragged. "Listen. I'll sign over half my next dividend, five million francs. Delete the files, swear you've no backups, and disappear."
Suresh chuckled, wet and bitter. "I don't want your money anymore. I want the thing money couldn't buy, a memory that lives in the present tense." One arm snaked around Romy's waist, the other fisting in his hair. "Give me tonight, and I promise your saintly wife will never see a byte of those videos."
Romy's heart slammed. For Monty, he reminded himself. Protect him first. He let his hands rest against Suresh's shoulders, neither yielding nor striking. "Set a timer. Ten minutes. After that you erase every copy while I watch."
Suresh's grin widened. "Deal."
But as he bent to claim another kiss, the doorknob rattled.
11:59 p.m. — Hotel Corridor
Monty's knuckles hovered a breath from the door. He'd trailed Romy's taxi on foot, fueled by dread and a map app. Now, outside room 367, he heard muffled voices, one of them distinctly Romy's, rough with tension.
He said work, Monty thought, pulse hammering. This doesn't sound like work.
He raised his hand again, then froze as Romy's voice sharpened inside: "Enough, let go of me."
Monty's blood surged. Without a plan, he slammed the door inward.
The tableau cut him like shrapnel: Suresh half-naked, hands on Romy; Romy braced, eyes blazing with disgust. Bourbon fumes thickened the air.
Suresh barked a laugh. "Ah, the doppelgänger returns. Care to join?" He licked his lips obscenely.
Monty didn't speak. He stepped forward, grabbed Suresh's wrist, and twisted until bone ground. Suresh yelped, sheet slipping precariously.
Romy interceded. "Monty, stop—"