"Hand over the forged passports, Rhys, before border security flags our flight pattern," I whispered, the cold Paris dampness clinging to my skin as the private terminal doors slid open.
"You worry too much, Vivienne," he muttered back, sliding the black identification folders into my hands as we swept past the customs checkpoint. "To the French authorities, you are a venture capitalist from Zurich, and I am your portfolio manager."
"My father's intelligence network controls half the private security at Le Bourget," I said, my pulse racing as we stepped into the waiting obsidian sedan. "If Arthur’s local operatives spot my face, those fake Zurich identities won't save us from a detention cell."
Rhys shut the passenger door behind us, his jaw set in a tight line. "Arthur doesn't know we
