The smell of Julian’s sandalwood cologne still lingered on the velvet sofa, but the man himself was a ghost. Elara ran to the window just in time to see the tail lights of the black car vanish into the morning mist of the Loire Valley.

On the table, where the ledger had sat only hours ago, was a single note in Julian’s sharp, decisive handwriting:

“I am finishing it. Stay in the house. If I’m not back by sunset, call the number on the back of this paper. I’m sorry, Elara. I had to choose.”

"Choose what?" she whispered to the empty room.

The fear that he had traded her safety—or the evidence against his father—for his own immunity tasted like ash. She didn't stay in the house. She grabbed her cello case, checked the hidden compartment for her own copies of the ledger pages she’d secretly photographed, and headed for the village. She wasn't a pawn anymore; she was a player.