The Saint-Germain-des-Prés mansion wrapped Rhys in its shadowed embrace, a fortress of Haussmann stone and hidden tech hidden behind ivy-clad walls.
Late morning light filtered through the study’s leaded windows, casting elongated patterns across the Persian rugs and leather-bound volumes that lined the shelves.
He reclined on the oversized Chesterfield couch, eyes closed, head cradled in interlaced fingers as if deep in slumber, his broad frame sprawled in uncharacteristic repose.
The faint rhythm of his breathing suggested exhaustion from the night's indulgences with Eleanor, but in truth, every nerve was attuned, ears sharpened to the soft click of the double doors opening.
Eliot entered without preamble, his tablet clutched under one arm, steps measured on the polished oak floor.
