The Vane vineyard was a sprawling, ancient estate of crumbling stone and wild lavender, tucked away in the Loire Valley. There were no cameras here, no flashing lights—only the sound of the wind through the vines.

"My grandfather bought this place when he wanted to disappear," Julian said, leading Elara into a kitchen that smelled of rosemary and old wood. "The walls are three feet thick. Not even a satellite can see us here."

For the first time since the night in the theater, Julian looked... human. He had shed the charcoal suit for a simple white linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension.

"You’re staring," he said, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

"I’m just trying to figure out which version of you is real," Elara replied, setting her cello case down. "The man who threatens rivals, or the man who hides in a vineyard?"

"Maybe neither," Julian whispered, stepping closer. The proximity was different here. In the city, it was a shield; here, it was a magnet. "Maybe the real me died in that fire with your mother, and I’m just trying to find my way back."