Weeks had passed since Charles Bellington’s arrest, but for Mia, time felt warped—both still and racing, like a pendulum swinging between memory and freedom. Rome had closed a chapter, but healing wasn’t as easy as walking away from a fire.
Richard had taken them to a secure estate in the south of France—a vineyard by the cliffs, owned by the Brown family. The air smelled of lavender and old wine, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Mia could hear birds instead of gunfire.
“Morning,” Amara greeted her softly, stepping onto the porch.
Mia sipped her tea, eyes on the sunrise. “I didn’t think I’d still be waking up in one piece.”
“We both know it’s not just about surviving,” Amara said, settling next to her. “It’s about who we are now.”
Mia nodded. “And what we want next.”
