The morning arrived with the gray, indifferent light of a Parisian dawn. I hadn't slept. The penthouse was silent, but I felt Charles's presence in every room, a heavy, watchful weight that followed me from the spare bedroom to the kitchen where a silent maid had laid out coffee and croissants. I was a guest, but it felt more like being a specimen under glass.
He found me staring out the window, the city spread out below like a map of a kingdom I was about to be introduced to. He was already dressed, a suit so perfectly tailored it seemed like a second skin, his tie a slash of blood red against the crisp white of his shirt. He looked like he was going to a battle, not a meeting.
"Nervous?" he asked, pouring himself a coffee.
"No," I lied. My hands were trembling, so I shoved them in my pockets.
"Good," he said. "They'll smell fear. Don't give them the satisfaction."
