The door latch clicks shut behind Tarmo, and a rare stillness settles over the suite. Sandi glances at me, but I’m already reaching for more gata, steam trailing from my hair. The air feels lighter now—or maybe just less strictly held.

For a few seconds, neither of us speaks. I stand where I gave my decision, robe cinched, pastry crumb resting on my thumb. Sandi sits across the room in bed, elbow on her knee, chin in her hand, her gaze lingering on me with a weight that almost begs for a different answer.

Finally, she breaks the hush. “You realise he’s already filed your ‘break’ under strategic movements, right? He’ll turn it into something. Distance, leverage, optics…” She gives a small, wry smile. “…Maybe even an alibi.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, then shrug. Unapologetic, ready. “And? He can file it under whatever he likes. This one’s mine.”

Sandi studies me, looking for cracks, but I hold her gaze with the truth: lightness hiding steadiness.

“You’re sure about London?”

“Yes.” I cross to the window, turning my back for a moment before glancing over my shoulder. “I need my own air for a while. No shadows. No missions. No wondering who’s going to knock next, or what country I’ll wake up in by nightfall.”

Her face softens. “And me?”

I move closer, stop just in reach. “You’re part of why I need the break. You burn at a constant hundred per cent, Sandi. Being next to that… it’s addictive, but it’s exhausting. London gives me space. It doesn’t erase you.”

We stay poised like that, tension between us neither anxious nor comfortable—a knowledge that’s heavier than words.

Sandi leans back, exhaling slowly. “Just remember—steps back can turn into being out of the room entirely. And that man? He’s an architect. He builds for that.”

A small smile tugs at my lips. “I’m counting on him underestimating what I can build, too.”

The quiet that follows isn’t cold. It’s alive, charged with the understanding that no matter how far either of us steps, Tarmo’s designs still stretch out in all directions, casting shadows neither of us can fully escape.

The room still hums with the echo of his exit as I cross to the bedside phone. I hold Sandi’s gaze for a moment—steady, not defiant—before lifting the receiver.

“Reception? Connect me to Mrs. Mitra’s suite, please.”

The line clicks, hums—then Mitra answers, her voice even and careful.

“It’s me,” I say, brisk. “I’m coming over. Give me ten minutes. We’ll settle the London details face to face.”

A pause, then Mitra’s reply, calm but loaded with meaning: “Alright. I’ll be here.”

I set the phone down, but I don’t step away. My fingers already move, familiar with the rhythm as I dial again—no need to look.

“Mrs. H?” My tone shifts—softer, but still deliberate. “Yes, it’s me. I need to speak with you before I leave. We’ve got… about a day, maybe less. I trust you’re somewhere you can talk freely?”

I listen, satisfaction flickering across my face at what I hear. “Good. Then I’ll hear you before tonight.”

As I hang up, a long breath leaves me, as if something critical has clicked into place.

From her perch at the window, Sandi tilts her head, studying me. “You’re lining up more than a flight.”

I pull my robe tighter, let the pause linger, then glance over my shoulder—a faint, curved smile on my lips. “I’m making sure that when I leave, it’s on my terms. Not Tarmo’s. And not anyone else’s.”

I lift the receiver again, cradling the phone against my shoulder as the line opens with a faint hiss.

“Good,” I say when Mrs. H’s voice settles into my ear, my words clipped but warm enough to keep it human. “I need you to do something immediately. Quietly, but without delay.”

Sandi shifts in her chair, sensing the turn.

I pace toward the window. “Contact Hasna Bilal directly—not one of her aides, not by proxy. Tell her, on my authority, that neither CYcrds nor the university are any longer in cooperation with Mr. Tarmo Amellal or his HeritageTrust. Those exact words. No ambiguity.”

Another pause. Mrs. H’s murmur is brief and professional, but my response carries sharpened edges.

“Yes, I understand this will echo. Let it. And I want her to hear it from us before she hears it from anyone circling Tarmo.”

I stop pacing, turn toward Sandi, and hold her gaze while still speaking into the phone. “Also—make sure Hasna understands this decision stands regardless of whatever assurances she may get from Tarmo’s side. We’re out. Entirely. No discussion.”

Mrs. H’s quiet assent comes back like a lock clicking shut.

“Thank you,” I finish, softening my tone just enough. “And keep a clean record of the call. If this leaks, I want it traceable to the right ears.”

I hang up, sliding the phone back into its cradle with deliberate finality.

Sandi raises one brow. “That’ll get his attention.”

My faint smile doesn’t reach my eyes. “Good. Consider it my parting gift before London.”

She goes still—not frozen, but contained. The kind of stillness that comes before calculation. Her jaw works once, barely visible, and when she speaks her voice is stripped clean of inflection.

“That was a big move.”

I watch the shift happen behind her eyes: the tally, the accounting. Karim already gone. Bartek dead. Names she doesn’t say aloud, but I can see her counting them anyway, measuring what’s left. She leans back in the chair, gaze sliding toward the window but not quite landing there, already three moves ahead into whatever comes next.

She won’t make it my problem. I know that much. Even after everything—after the Apuseni Mountains, after I came for her when I could have stayed clear—she’ll keep whatever weight this carries to herself.

I don’t push. She’s already given me more than I expected by still being in this room.

“You’ll find a way,” I say, quiet but certain.

Her eyes flick back to mine, sharp and measuring. Then something eases, just a fraction—not relief, but acknowledgment.

“Always do.”

The hotel lobby has the stillness of early departures—the muted shush of luggage wheels over marble, the faint hiss of the revolving door letting in air still sharp from the mountains.

I.Ph.