The intercom crackled. Mason's voice, polite as a locked door: “Miss Knight, Mr. Whitman is at the gate. Alone. He's requesting five minutes."
Sarah closed her notebook. “Out front," she said. “By the fountain. Line of sight. No private corners."
“Copy," Mason replied. “I'll keep the gate open."
Alex looked up from the kitchen island where he was pretending to read a spreadsheet and actually watching her breathe. “Want me beside you or in view?"
“In view," she said. “Left of the steps."
“Understood." He reached for the rose in his pocket and didn't take it out. “You're first. Always."
She squeezed his fingers once and walked.
The heat had thinned into a late-afternoon glow. Gravel grated softly under her shoes. At the end of the drive, the iron gates stood open like quotation marks.
