rile gray filtering through the be

It wasn't Julian. It was his assistant, Sean Reynolds, a man with a perpet

is voice as flat as his gaze. "A PR issue with his ne

and. "Mr. Slater has instructed that you are to be relocated to the family estate in

d left, closing the d

limited credit

wered quickly, dressing in the most inconspicuous clothes she ow

n had left to call a generic Uber, setting the pickup l

y shift was lax. Ten minutes later, she was in the back of a Toyota Prius, h

ne, one that catered to clients who valued privacy above all

h her, she felt a familiar knot of anxiety tighten in her

," the woman said,

hloe held her breath, her eyes glued to the moni

n she h

Thump-thump

ic drum corps. The most be

ne, two... and three. All three heartbeat

e, and the tears she had held back for two days finally came. They

. "You're in a very delicate phase. You need absolute bed rest. No

ed an encrypted digital copy of her medical file, which sh

elt blindingly bright. Her mi

ep her in. But every fortress had blind spots. And being inside, playing the part of the broken,

only essentials. She deliberately left behind a few pieces of expensive jewelry on the

t door. The driver, a stoic man in a black suit, opened the door for her.

red out the window at the Pacific Ocean, a vast expanse

pre-installed, its icon cleverly disguised. She smiled grimly, navigated to the setting

the hills of Montecito. A massive, wrought-iron gate bearing the Slater fa

ak trees. At the end of it stood the main house, a sprawling Spani

lothes, wiped the exhaustion from her face, and compose

was just