The city of Paris glittered under a pale spring sun, its timeless charm undisturbed by the tension carried in Andrew Best’s chest as his car pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of the Betten Courts’ estate.
Henri and Marie Betten Court—old money, old values, and the kind of influence in the world that could either make or permanently unmake a man like Andrew.
He adjusted his coat, stepped out of the car, and walked up the marble steps with quiet resolve. The staff greeted him politely, leading him through polished halls filled with classical art and hushed elegance until they reached a private lounge.
Henri stood by the window, swirling a glass of red wine in his hand, while Marie sat on a velvet chair, legs crossed, her expression calm but unreadable.
They both turned at the sound of
