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“You two clearly know each other,” I say, glancing between them, because the ease in the air has a history baked into it that a single introduction can’t explain.

“We go back,” the owner agrees, and there’s a wicked little curl to it. “Oh, you didn’t tell her?”

“It hasn’t come up,” Lucien says, in the flat tone of a man hoping a subject will have the decency to die where it stands.

It does not have the decency to die. The owner’s grin becomes the grin of a man about to enjoy himself enormously. “Hasn’t come up. He says, about the years we spent on the same circuit.” He turns to me, conspiratorial, savoring it. “Your doctor here, sweetheart—before the degrees, before the bestsellers with his name embossed on the cover, before he had a single letter after his name—your doctor was one of the finest pole and aerial performers I ever shared a stage with.”

The studio goes very quiet, or maybe that’s just the roaring in my ears.

“What,” I say.

And here is the thing that guts me, the thing that genuinely robs me of speech:I didn’t know.

I, who researched this man down to the marrow. I, who pulled every paper he ever published, read his books cover to cover twice, traced his credentials and his history and the shape of his career until I was certain I understood the architecture of Lucien better than he understood it himself.

I am the woman who knows things.

It is my entire stock in trade, the thing that kept me alive when nothing else could—and somehow, in all that excavation, I never found this.

He buried it that thoroughly.

He scrubbed a whole life clean from the record.

“You performed,” I breathe, rounding on him. “Professionally. You—the suits, the fountain pen, the locked notebook, the man who feels nothing on purpose—you flew.”

The mastermind in me is scrambling to re-draw the entire map of him, because this single fact rewrites everything.

The control I read as innate is discipline forged on a stage where one missed grip means the floor. The way he watches me move through a room, clocking my balance and my weight and the mechanics of my body—I’d filed it as a clinician’s habit, the doctor assessing the patient. It was never that.

It was a performer recognizing a performer. He has been reading me like an audience reads a routine this whole time, knowing exactly what it costs to make difficulty look like ease, and I never once caught it because I was too busy being certain I’d already solved him.

The arrogance of it makes me want to laugh. I, who pride myself on missing nothing, missed the entire foundation the man was built on. He didn’t just hide a hobby. He hid a self—the original self, the one all the others were poured over—and hehid it from the one person alive who might have recognized it on sight.

Lucien removes his glasses.

Slowly.

Cleans them on the hem of his shirt in a gesture I’ve come to recognize as his version of bracing, and when he answers his voice is quieter than I’ve ever heard it, stripped of its clinical armor.

“It funded everything,” he says. “The degrees. The psychiatry. The years of studying the architecture of the human mind so I could become what I am now. The respectable career was built entirely on the back of the one the respectable world sneered at. Every credential I own, every paper, every letter after my name—paid for, dollar by dollar, by a body that knew how to defy gravity for an audience that paid to watch.” He slides the glasses back on, and something flickers behind them, old and complicated. “So no. It hasn’t come up.”

“Oh, come on,” the owner says, pushing off the desk. “She’s a devotee, Lucien. You can’t drop that on the girl and then stand there in your nice trousers like a tax accountant. Show her. One sequence. For old times’ sake, and for the prettiest fan you’re ever going to get.”

“No.”

“Lucien.”

“I’m not dressed for it. It’s been years. I’ll tear something and you’ll enjoy it.”

“You’ll be insufferable about how you haven’t lost it,” the owner counters. “Which you haven’t. I can see it in how you’re standing. Muscle memory doesn’t forget a first language.”

I say nothing.

I just look at him—Doc, my Doc, the immovable planner, the man who has spent every moment of our acquaintance behinda wall of glass and clinical distance—and I let him see, plainly, how much I want this.

Whatever he reads in my face does what no amount of cajoling could, because he exhales through his nose, mutters something that sounds like a curse against his own better judgment, and begins, with grim resignation, to unbutton his shirt.

He strips down to a fitted base layer, chalks his hands at the bowl by the desk with the unthinking ritual of a man whose body remembers a language his mouth forgot, and crosses to the nearest pole. He grips it.