The French countryside was a blur of lavender fields and ancient stone cottages under a soft, grey mist that felt like a damp blanket over the world. We were staying in a small villa in Provence, a place Caleb had secured using offshore accounts that were hidden so deep in the financial shadows even Silas Thorne’s reach couldn't find them. To the locals, I was Marie a young widow seeking a quiet life. To the world, Elena Vance had vanished in the smoke and fire of the Manhattan collapse.
“Toby’s finally down,” I said, walking into the rustic kitchen. The smell of old wood and dried herbs usually calmed me, but tonight, the air felt thick with secrets.
Caleb was hunched over his laptop at the heavy oak table, the glow reflecting off his glasses. He looked exhausted, the skin under his eye
