A low roar of jet engines cut through Lisbon's humid dusk. Camila—now Mila Chen—stood behind the velvet rope in Terminal 2's VIP lounge, clutching Lucas's hand. He'd insisted on wearing his favorite grey sweatshirt, the one with the lighthouse patch.
“He's going to see the clinics," the concierge had whispered this morning as she checked them in. “Private tour, full security detail."
Mila's stomach twisted. She'd agreed to a meeting with the Thorne Group under the pretense of negotiating data privacy—but she'd never expected Julian Thorne himself to touch down.
“Mommy," Lucas said, tilting his head. “Why do they have soldiers here?"
Mila squeezed his hand. “Just precautionary. You know, VIP protocol."
Lucas frowned, glancing at the men in dark suits and earpieces lined up along the gl
