COLD CHAMPAGNE, BITTER TRUTHS

The dial tone buzzed harshly in Julian’s ear, a flat, merciless hum that signaled the end of his world. He stood inside the glass booth, his forehead pressed against the grime of the window.

The Department of Justice.

Julian’s breath hitched. In corporate warfare, civil lawsuits were standard play; you settled, you paid a fine, you issued a sterile apology written by publicists, and you moved on to the next venture. But a federal raid meant wire fraud. It meant bank fraud. It meant the offshore routing numbers he had personally signed to evade capital gains taxes were now evidence exhibits in a federal prosecutor's grand jury presentation.

He dropped the receiver, letting it swing by its cord.

He needed an attorney. Not the boutique firm he kept on retainer for boardroom disputes, but a high-priced criminal defense pit bull. But how could he hire anyone when his accounts were frozen?

Elena had orchestrated this with terrifying, surgical precision. She hadn't reacted in anger; she had planned this execution for months. The lunch on the terrace, the phone call, the wide-brimmed hat—it had all been a stage play. She had placed him on that sunlit cliffside simply to pin him down while her strikes landed across two continents simultaneously.

Julian stumbled back onto the sidewalk. He looked down at the boarding pass in his hand. Going back to America meant walking directly into the arms of federal agents waiting at JFK or Newark. But staying in France meant being arrested by local authorities without diplomatic protection or financial backing.

A sleek black limousine pulled up along the curb beside him. The rear window rolled down silently.

Julian braced himself, half expecting to see Elena again. Instead, sitting in the plush interior was a woman with sharp features, silver hair cut into an immaculate bob, and eyes as piercing as cracked ice.