Adrian.
She was right there.
Fifty yards away. Standing on a rotting pier with someone I hadn't seen in fifteen years. Looking terrified and beautiful and alive—so impossibly alive after two months of believing I'd killed her.
Scarlett.
My wife.
The woman I'd driven to fake her own death.
Marcus's team had already moved into position, blocking every exit from the marina. Professional. Efficient. Exactly what I paid them for. But all their training and tactical expertise meant nothing if Scarlett looked at me with those emerald eyes and chose to run anyway.
Or worse—chose to jump.
"Positions secured, Mr. Pierre." Marcus's voice came through the earpiece, calm and controlled. "All exits blocked. She has nowhere to go."
I stepped out of the lead vehicle, my shoes crunching on gravel.
