The first true morning of the post-Vance era didn't arrive with the blare of a corporate alarm or the frantic vibration of an encrypted satellite link. It began with the slow, rhythmic clinking of harbor cranes two miles out, a steady, industrial heartbeat that drifted through the open terrace doors of our private quarters.
I woke up to the smell of fresh rain and dark Nigerian coffee.
The light stretching across the linen sheets was a soft, pale gold, entirely different from the harsh, fluorescent glare of the Seattle boardrooms where I had spent my youth calculating profit margins and defensive strategies. I shifted slightly, my hand brushing against the heavy, cool band of platinum resting securely against my ring finger.
Ethan was already awake, sitting on the edge of the low chaise
