The drive from Geneva to Paris felt endless. The night swallowed the highway, the only sound the low hum of the engine and the rhythmic sweep of the wipers. Neither of us spoke for a long time. The silence between Adrian and me was heavy with everything that had just happened — Charlotte’s death, the revelation about my husband, and the truth that had begun to poison everything we thought we knew.
Paris appeared on the horizon like a bruise against the morning sky. The Eiffel Tower was just a faint silhouette as we entered the city before dawn. The streets were quiet, washed in pale gold from the first hint of sunrise. Adrian’s grip on the steering wheel loosened slightly, but his eyes never lost their sharpness.
“We can’t go to any hotel,” he said. “They’ll trace the credit cards. We ne
