Alouette knocks on the door.

Her abrupt meeting with Harry ended six hours ago, and she hasn't heard from him since. When she inquired about his whereabouts, Gray gave her a snarky smile and a, "Why should I tell you? You've already tried to kill him once."

She'd angrily bitten down on her tongue to keep the streak of curses from leaving her mouth. She should've expected her actions in his office to backfire. Gray had to have seen something in her eyes, though—maybe desperation or something sharper-toothed and more painful—because he'd told her Jesse was at the Palace too, just like her. She can't put into words the relief she felt when she heard those words. After a little more pleading, he'd left her in front of this door on her same floor.

It's the third time today she finds her way here. Every time she knocks, she begs the room's occupant to open, but he never does. She's coming to wonder if she wasn't lied to, instead. Why would Jesse keep away from her like this? Did he fault her for what happened to the Revolution? The thought stung, deep and sharp. She couldn't blame him, if he did. He'd be right. It is her fault the Revolution was ruined. She brought Harry to its headquarters, when she should've left him to die instead. Nausea comes over her. She annihilated her father's organisation. He destroyed their family to create it, and she destroyed both in a futile, desperate attempt to rebuild them.

She knocks on the door harder. "Please open the door!"

She feels so alone. What even is left, now? She'd never even thought such loss was possible. She'd known the world wasn't kind all her life, but she'd never anticipated the actions of a couple of people to bring complete ruination. Ever since she was little, she saw reality as some ticking mechanism, made of cogs and iron thread. Every piece was necessary, but every piece was replaceable, too. Everyone mattered and didn't matter at the same time—they either worked within the system, or they didn't. Now she knows she was wrong. They were never the only options. Some pieces break free and affect everything else around them. Some pieces can destroy it all. She is that piece. She thought sliding out of the system was the only way to be truly free, but now she knows it was never a possibility. She could never be free, because her actions have consequences—will always have consequences. Her actions have brought death and suffering, even though she never meant to. They've brought pain and despair. In a deeply interwoven system, you can never tell which pieces will be affected by your even smallest actions. How could she ever trust moving through the world, now?

Her fist hits the wood again. "Jesse, please! Please!"

"I don't know about you, but I feel like he would've opened the door the first two times if he wanted to talk to you."

Alouette turns around so fast her shoulder hits the door. Brooks is standing right behind her, still wearing his black uniform. She hasn't even heard him approach her. "I need to see him," she replies, tense.

Brooks cocks his head. "That sounds like a personal problem."

"Why isn't he opening the door? What have you done to him?" A terrible thought strikes her. "Is he even here, or did Gray lie to me? Is he—"

"Oh, he's in there. I saw him a few hours ago."

"What?! Then why won't he—"

He shrugs. "Like I said, maybe he doesn't want to talk to you. So why don't you stop bothering the whole floor and leave?"

Alouette takes a step towards him. "I don't despise you," she says, her voice low. "I don't know you. You aren't one of those that betrayed me. But, if you think that means I hold no ill will against you, you're wrong. You're my enemy. You killed my friends. So watch your tone, or I'll—"

Brooks stops her with a raise of his hand. "Before you continue, you should know that anyone who threatens the personal guard gets thrown in jail. Palace rules."

"Are you really—"

"Ah, I know what you're thinking right now. I wasn't even thrown in jail when I threatened Mr. Styles, so you don't stand a chance. I've got to admit you're right. But Mr. Styles is busy right now. Do you know what that means?" He takes a step forward. His eyes are cool in a way she's never seen them before. This isn't the same man she saw playing games on his phone against the rules. "Mr. Styles will certainly bail you out, when he finds out. Still, I'm pretty sure that wouldn't happen in the next hour, at the very least. Now, feel free to continue."

Alouette clenches her teeth. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, then another. "You said you saw Jesse. When was that?"

The corners of Brooks's lips turn up slightly. She hates the fact that she gave him exactly the reaction he was going for. "Lunchtime."

"How was he?"

He considers it for a moment. "Not too happy."

"If you're lying to me, I'll make you regret it."

He raises his eyebrows. "How scary."

Alouette's hurt palm stings when she closes her hands into fists. She forces herself to ease her grip not to open the cut again. She can't have the bandage redone for the third time in the same twenty-four hours. "Where is Harry?"

Brooks's position eases up. "What a coincidence! I came here to let you know Mr. Styles expects you for dinner."

Alouette is filled by rage at the thought—though she doesn't let it show. Dinner. Harry wants to see her for dinner, like the past few days haven't happened at all. Like they don't matter, in his mind. How can he even think she'd be happy to dine with him? The worst part is that she can't turn down the not-so-invite, because she needs to ask him about Amina. She needs to know if the Palace has made any progress, if there's anything she can do. She's not going to sit back while her sister's well-being uniquely depends on the same people that have put her in danger in the first place.

"He'll meet you in the north dining room at eight." Brooks lifts his sleeve to check an imaginary watch. "Which would be in... look at that, less than two hours."

"What?" The question is out before Alouette can stop it. "What do you mean, less than two hours? I thought it was morning?"

Brooks laughs. "Morning? Why would it be morning?"

"No one else was around earlier."

"President's orders," he says with a shrug. "If you ask me, he was trying to see what you'd do if you thought no one else was around. I swear I've never met anyone as tricky as him in my twenty-three years of life. You can never tell which lengths he'll go to have his way. Well, he wouldn't be still here otherwise."

Alouette is half-certain she might turn violent if she listens to him talking about Harry for a while longer. She doesn't need to be reminded of how stupid she's been—she doesn't want to hear him praised for the same thing that has brought to her destruction. Brooks must see it on her face, because he stops.

"You should go back to your rooms. There'll be a delivery for you soon."

"I don't want a delivery," she hisses through her teeth, and Brooks chuckles.

"And I want a salary raise, what else?" He lets out a long, heavy sigh and walks away, pulling out his phone. "I swear I don't get paid enough for this. It's not worth it."

Alouette sends one last look at the door and walks off in the opposite direction. She's so annoyed that she could do something awful, if only she was given half a reason to. She's never felt so untethered as she does now. Her mind no longer feels like a familiar place. The world doesn't feel like a familiar place, either. Reality seems to be tipping at the edges, like a ship about to sink. Collapse is imminent.

She gets to her rooms. Her palm is tingling uncomfortably, now, but she managed not to break the skin again, so that counts for something. She makes a beeline for the window. If Jesse doesn't want to unlock his door, then she'll get to him through the window. She's done it once before. Sure, their rooms aren't adjacent and there's a three-hundred-foot drop, but she's feeling so reckless that it doesn't even matter.

When she tries the handle, though, the window doesn't open. So something was locked, after all. Alouette glances around the room. She has half a mind to shatter the glass, but then discovers both her chair and desk are now gone. There's nothing she could use, and the more rational part of her comes around to remind her the glass of her floor-to-ceiling window is likely reinforced and won't break easily.

She angrily rips off her clothes and dips into the shower. When she turns it on, the water is already warm. She switches it to cold and lets out an annoyed breath when it doesn't get any cooler than lukewarm. The Palace must be trying to drive her insane. She moves the switch to the other side, until it's near-boiling on her flesh. She grabs the sponge and rubs her body until her skin is raw and stinging.

When she steps out of the shower the mirror is fogged up, and the bandage on her right hand is dripping water on the floor. She squeezes water drops out of her hair and replaces the bandage. The cut isn't as red and angry as some hours ago, though it still hurts. She hides her face in her hands and crouches on the floor. She should feel cold, but the air of the bathroom is warm even as it hits her bare skin. Alouette hates that, too. She hates how everything is so comfortable, so appropriate—she can't punish herself no matter how hard she tries. She doesn't deserve to have warm air and warm water and clean bandages and fresh food and comfortable clothes in her wardrobe. Why won't the Palace let her suffer?

There's a knock on the door. She cleans the corner of the mirror; it shows she has less than an hour left until eight. Her fingertips are roughened by the long shower. She takes a clean towel and wraps it around herself. The cooler air in her bedroom dries the drops of water on her skin as she stalks to the door. For a moment, in the bathroom, she was about to start crying. She can't allow it to happen again. She can't let anyone catch her like this.

She's ready to bite off the head of whoever has interrupted her coming breakdown when she opens the door, but she hesitates a moment when she discovers no one is standing on the other side. She frowns and looks out in the corridor, but whoever passed by is long gone.

Then, she spots a white box on the floor. Dread fills her. She already knows what it is.

Keeping her towel closed with a hand, she picks up the box and sets it on the bed after closing the door with a kick. She lifts the lid, her heart beating faster.

She bites her lower lip so hard it nearly bleeds when she sees a pair of heels. They're beautiful, really, but the sight of them makes her want to puke. She takes them out of the box with trembling hands. Just below them, there's a deep blue fabric. Now she can taste blood in her mouth. It unfurls when she lifts it up. It's a dress, short and deep blue, an expensive sibling of the green dress Harry got for her once. Rage mounts in her like the tide.

After everything, Harry is still playing dress up with her. She's never felt less taken seriously than in this moment. On a whim, she grabs it and the heels and stalks to the bathroom. She opens the window, and throws the heels out, one after the other. She raises the dress to the opening, but pauses as a thought strikes her.

She leaves the window open and walks back into her bedroom. The knife she stole from the tray yesterday is still where she hid it. Alouette throws the dress on the floor. She refuses to let him think he can control her. She steps over the dress. A deep breath, and she stabs the knife into the expensive midnight blue fabric. Using her body weight to pin the dress down, she shreds it with the knife, slowly and methodically, until it's as battered as the rest of her existence. Harry doesn't get to ruin her and act like everything's fine. Nothing is fine. It will never be.

She folds the dress back into the box, and that's when she sees a note on the bottom. She picks it up and reads it.

I'll see you soon.

Alouette nearly throws the box out of the window in that moment. She crumples the note up into a ball and lets it fall to the floor. How dare he? Her anger is a wild animal prowling the grounds for a victim. She makes for her desk for a pen, before remembering it was removed from the corner of her room. Well, it matters little. She closes the box and takes the knife. With some difficulty, she etches two letters into the lid with the tip of the blade, one under the other, large enough to take up all the space.

F.

U.

She opens her door and storms outside. She has no time to waste with the lift—not that she'd be able to activate it, anyway—so she dips into the emergency staircase. She goes up.

When she steps into the corridor, she isn't the only person there. People send her half-worried glances as she storms through the hallways, fast enough to trample anyone that will dare to stand in her way. She reaches the door to Harry's apartments and puts the box on the floor, in front of his door. She glares at the camera, in the corner of the corridor, and goes back the way she came.

In her room, she goes through the clothes in her wardrobe, in search of anything that will show Harry she doesn't belong to him. But all the clothes she has were bought by him. She takes the black trousers of one of her pantsuits and throws them on the bed before resuming her search.

Her breath halts when she finds a pink dress shirt and a memory from a lifetime ago resurfaces. A different her, trying to cover for Evie as she desperately tried to replace a suit of Harry's that had gotten ruined. Mixed with red, on Nathan's order. It would be too ridiculously petty, even for her.

She takes the dress shirt and puts it on the mattress. She lets her towel drop to the ground and gets dressed. Her trousers are a little long since they're to be used with heels, so she rolls them on the inside before putting on her shoes. She knows she must look like a mess right now, but she doesn't care. She refuses to be Harry's doll for a moment longer.

By the time eight comes around, she's already walking to the north dining room. The corridors are emptier now—she might've scared the employees away when she stormed to Harry's rooms in her towel—but she welcomes it. She doesn't want to be stared at.

When she enters the dining room, Harry is already there. He's sitting at the table, facing the door, a glass of red wine in his hand. His gaze shifts to the side of the room at her arrival, and his personal chefs comes in through the second door, putting the food on the table. Alouette lingers in the frame throughout the whole process, not trusting her mouth to say a thing in the outsider's presence.

When he leaves, Harry's eyes bore into hers. "Sit," he says, motioning to the chair in front of his. He doesn't stand up. Alouette is glad he doesn't get any closer.

She sits down at the table, but refuses to make another move.

Harry looks her over for one long moment, amusement in his light green irises. "I got your message." He takes the wine bottle and pours blood-red wine into Alouette's glass. "Though it's a shame for the dress. It was rather expensive."

"I'm not a doll for you to dress up," Alouette spits out.

The corners of his lips turn up. "Charming. How about the shoes?"

"Check your courtyard."

Harry chuckles. "Again? Oh, my. What will the guards think?"

"Are you having fun?" It's the exact same thing he asked her a few hours ago. He doesn't miss it.

"Right now, a little." He's back to sipping his wine, now. Between them, the roast beef with potatoes, peas and carrots is cooling down. Neither of them makes a move towards it. They're not here to eat in each other's company—Alouette is fairly sure she wouldn't be able to, if she were to try. Earlier, she was hungry. She hadn't eaten in days. Now, though...

"How dare you?"

That takes Harry by surprise, though he hides it well. He puts down the crystal glass slowly. "Excuse me?"

"You're having fun?" Alouette repeats, anger rising in her tone. "The Revolution clothed you and fed you. They saved your life. At least have the decency to feel regret."

"But I don't regret it." He turns the glass, the lights of Northfair shine on it. The rain stopped a while ago, leaving room for a cloudy, moonless night constellated by the artificial, multicoloured illumination on the other side of the window. "The Revolution didn't save me. People did, and I showed the same kindness in return. They're alive, and my debt is paid."

Alouette's relief is so strong she could drown in it, but her hand closes around her wineglass not to let it show. Anthony, Elijah and Owl must be safe, then. It isn't much, but it's still something. She scoffs. "Is that supposed to make me happy? All hail Mr. Styles, he spared four people."

Harry's little smile hides a hint of annoyance on his face. "And here I thought it would make you happy."

She lets go of her glass so abruptly that it tips over. A deep red stain spreads over the white tablecloth. "Happy?! Are you fucking serious?" She realises she's standing only when she's already leaning over the table. "Oh yes, you really are a perfect man, aren't you? If you think I'll fall for your games again, you're wrong."

He leans back on his chair, putting distance between them. "I'm not playing any games."

"And you're a fucking liar, too."

Harry clenches his jaw. "The last time I checked, you're the one that betrayed me first."

"So you did this for vengeance?" Alouette lets out a dry laugh. "All these months, pretending you'd got over it while weaving your little revenge plot. What a good actor you are, Harry. I'd be impressed, if it didn't make me sick."

"Vengeance?" he repeats, and then sighs. "Oh, come on, Alouette. Do you truly think I'd take down an entire organisation just to get back at you?"

His words shock her, though it takes her a moment to understand why. Do you truly think I'd take down an entire organisation just to get back at you? Like the thought he'd act in response to her is ridiculous. Like she doesn't truly matter. Like she was simply... there.

She sits back down. Now she wishes her glass hadn't tipped over, because she suddenly feels like getting drunk. "Was it all fake, then?" she asks, quietly, before she can stop herself.

Harry is still and silent. When she lifts her gaze to him, he's rolling the stem of his wineglass between his index and thumb. When he speaks, it's just a moment too late—that extra second that makes the silence linger for just a little too long. "Anything can be real, if its consequences are." His eyes shoot to hers, but she looks away.

"That doesn't mean anything."

"Then it must mean nothing."

It doesn't mean nothing. It means a lot of things—none of which she wants to get into. Her heart hurts. She wants to stand up and leave.

Harry takes her glass and cleans it with his napkin before setting it in front of her again. This time, he doesn't fill it.

"I despise you," Alouette says.

The look in Harry's eyes is unreadable. "That's better than nothing."

"I'll ruin you."

"You're welcome to try."

She clenches her fists; her bandaged hand hurts, but it's nothing compared to what she's feeling right now. "I'll take everything away from you, if I get the chance to."

"I'll be waiting for it eagerly."

She shoots to her feet. "What the hell's wrong with you?!" The echo of her shout rings through the room.

The door on the side of the room opens. "My father used to say that the more someone shouts, the less they have to say," the woman that has just entered the room says. She has long brown hair and eyes like an ocean spill. "Not that I'm referring to you, of course. I'm still not sure whether he was right or not." She walks towards them. She isn't wearing heels, but she's tall. It takes Alouette a moment to place her.

Kiara.

Kiara's hand rests on Harry's shoulder, perfect black-polished nails and a sharp look in her eyes. "I hope you haven't been getting into pointless arguments." She's looking down at Harry as she says it. Then, her gaze moves to Alouette. "We've already met before, twice."

Alouette glances around in confusion, and that's when she notices the table is set for three, not two.

Kiara sits down and leans her chin on her hand. "I'm sorry I'm late. So you're Ivenhart's daughter. I have to admit I'm a little excited."