She didn't.
He flipped on the light switch, which lit up several lamps in the room all at once, and tripled its brightness. Now everything was fully illuminated, exposed.
She tried to see what Matthew was seeing: The bed was a shambles.
Sheets, pillows, and the comforter strewn across the mattress and
onto the floor. The two empty champagne bottles. One on its side.
The bath towel beside the bed. The unlocked terrace door.
He strode past the bed to his walk-in closet and hung up his garment bag, acting as though he did not notice the mess. Pulling his tie from his collar, he caught her earnest reflection in the full-length closet mirror. He turned around to take a closer look at her disheveled appearance, and for a moment his eyes fixed on the empty champagne bottle resting atop the night table. He graced her with a brief, condescending glance, then went back to undressing.
A chilly gust of wind blew open the terrace doors and lifted the curtains. He clucked his tongue as he crossed the room to close the doors.
"Oh" Greta said sharply, coming up quickly behind him. "I was so hot. I think I have a fever."
Ignoring her, he pulled the doors shut.
She angled her head to see outside. Jean-Pierre seemed to have gotten away safely.
Matthew twisted the lock and grabbed the curtains and started to slide them together. Suddenly he stopped and crouched a little. "What's that?" he said, squinting outside.
"What's what, darling?" Greta said, hearing her own voice crack as she rushed to his side.