Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Adrien
I wake alone—cool sheets where her warmth should be, her absence beside me an alarm louder than any sound.
The room holds no light, yet awareness arrives easily—the kind that lingers when something valuable slips from reach.
Wrinkled linen maps the place where she stretched against me, our legs tangled, her breath a soft tide at my throat.
Last night taught me what Monaco first revealed: it isn’t only the sex with Brie.
After, I want the after—the talk that opens and opens, the quiet that isn’t empty, the nearness that asks nothing but everything.
I pried details from her between silences—fragments, really.
She speaks four languages fluently, can hold her own in two more.
Krav Maga, she said, came harder. Her brothers went military; she chose a quieter, more shadowed path her parents believed would keep her safer.
One still serves, the other now works for the Secret Service.
Families like ours worship service—just to different gods. Mine, the market. Hers, the flag.
After brushing my teeth, I pull on my trousers and shirt, leaving the shirt unbuttoned, and step out of the bedroom.
Across the hall the door is open and light streams in through the large windows.
It’s a second bedroom, larger than the one Brie inhabits, only this bedroom is set up more like a den with a desk that’s off to one corner and open shelves brimming with clothes.
This second bedroom doubles as an office, and I catch glimpses of her life here: a framed photo of what must be her parents, a small stack of novels on the desk, reading glasses she didn’t possess in Monaco.
Everything precise, organized, but lived-in.
There’s no sign of Brie, so listening for sounds, I exit the hallway into the living room. The apartment carries her scent—something clean, faintly floral, as if she refuses to linger anywhere too long.
“Morning.” She appears in the kitchen doorway, a loose silk robe floating around her, hair twisted into a careless bun that no stylist could reproduce. Steam curls from the mug in her hand. The moment hangs—quietly domestic, a novelty that feels like déjà vu.
“You made coffee.” It sounds more surprised than I intend.
“French press. Figured you’d prefer it to drip.” A small smile plays on her lips. “It’s almost nine. I wasn’t sure if you needed to be somewhere.”
That she remembered how I take it—and took the trouble to make it right—feels intimate, like the brush of a thumb at the wrist.
“No, it’s fine.” I come around, taking the mug from her and inhaling the coffee aroma before taking a sip. “What time did you get up?”
“I always wake early.”
“How? There’s no light in that room.”
“Circadian rhythm.” She moves with purpose now, the woman from last night shifting into her daytime armor—focused, contained.
“Even with no windows?” I gesture toward her bedroom.
“Especially with no windows.” She glances at me, and I catch a glimpse of something—maybe vulnerability, maybe just habit. “Training. Habits. Light can compromise sleep schedules on assignment. And I sleep better with one exit point.”
The way she says it—flat, unembellished—makes me realize how much of her life has been engineered for control.
It’s the first real detail she’s offered about her work, and I file it away, understanding I’m seeing her world now.
One exit point means one entrance point, which means she’s always on edge.
I eye her over the mug. I kept her up most of the night. On the yacht, we slept with the light and woke with want, like tide against hull. Here, I wonder—does she ever rest easily?
Her phone buzzes, and the shift is immediate. Spine straightens. Shoulders square. The woman making me coffee becomes the operative—all efficiency and edge.
“Hey,” she says, moving toward the den, but her tone has changed. Cooler.
I follow at a distance, fascinated by the transformation.
“Yes, I can talk. I’m at my place.”
A beat. “Caroline? Does Hudson know this?”
She nods, twisting slightly so her eyes catch mine.
Without mascara, her lashes pale to gold; her skin holds the faint flush of sleep.
Silk pajama pants ride low on her hips; the matching tank skims higher, leaving a honeyed strip of midriff I should not be staring at while she discusses classified things.
“Understood. It’s smart to monitor Crawford.”
With one last glance my way, she heads down the hall to her bedroom. I follow, wanting to hear her side of the conversation, when my phone on the bedside table lights up with Margot’s name.
I grab the phone and realize I’ve got multiple notifications from my mother, father, and Margot. I swipe to answer the incoming call, stepping away from Brie so as not to interfere with her conversation.
“Margot,” I answer. “Everything okay?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering. You’ve been evading my calls.”
“Mother and Father rang separately.” That never bodes well.
“And when was the last time you called them?”
I scrub a hand over my face. “Fair. What makes you think I’m evading you?”
“I heard Alicia Morgan is still working with you. Do I need to have PR on standby?”
“No.”
“That’s what Alicia said.”
“You spoke to her?”
“I wanted to confirm you took her meeting.”
“I told you I did.”
“And I wanted to ensure she’s satisfied with—”
“You’re checking up on me. What did she tell you?”
“Only that you contracted her services and confidentiality is a part of your agreement.”
“Which has made you wildly curious about what I’ve cocked up.”
“Tommy isn’t saying.”
That’s because Tommy doesn’t know the specifics.
“You do understand I left the family business?”
“You left the building,” she counters. “Not the brand.”
“I’m not the brand.”
“Yes, brother dearest, you are. And that ‘little investment’ of yours is global. It will pull more coverage in Italy and France than here. Whatever’s happening will come back around.”
She’s right, and the truth tastes metallic.
I could fire Eddie today and shutter the investigation.
Crawford won’t leak—admitting a threat invites questions about how votes are made.
But the longer I let this run, the more likely it is that someone else is threatened—someone who won’t keep the source under wraps.
“You’re going to need to trust me,” I say, ending the call. I thumb over to my mother, catching a glimpse in the mirror that stills me: Brie in a wig cap, her golden hair gone.
I move closer, dialing. Mother’s call drops to voicemail—the usual: afternoon swim, phone abandoned to a locker or boat bag. “Maman, I missed your call. Papa’s, too. Everything’s fine. I’ll ring you later.”
I hang up as Brie juggles with a mousy black wig with a thick braid down the back. When I step closer, I notice her blue eyes are now a murky brown and she’s in loose jeans, running shoes, and an unflattering top that loosely hangs below her waist.
“A disguise?”
The transformation is jarring—the same woman, yet removed, like a painting turned to the wall.
“I’ll wear a hat and sunglasses too.” Practical. Clinical. “From a distance I won’t be recognizable.”
Up close, of course, she’s unmistakable. But then she studs earrings up and down her lobes, and with the small loop in her nose she becomes someone I would overlook in a crowd—some New York student or Jersey kid on an errand.
“What are you up to today?”
“Surveillance. Are you heading into the office?”
“I am.” Captivated, I watch her assemble herself—and feel something cold when she reaches for a gun, checks the chamber, tucks it into a backpack.
“Surveillance of what exactly?” The sight of her armed and disguised trips a switch I didn’t know I had. Protective isn’t a word I’ve used for myself. It fits now, uncomfortably well.
“It’s routine,” she says, not meeting my eyes. The distance is professional, and it stings anyway.
“You’re not wearing a vest.” My voice holds steady; my pulse does not.
“A vest would show under these clothes.” She tweaks the fall of the shirt. I want to touch her, to keep her. “It’s unnecessary. Boring day, most likely. We’re rotating shifts.” A breath. “Do you think we can have dinner tonight?”
“I’d love that.” I take her in again, the vanishing act nearly complete. “This look is…” I let my mouth curve. “Not to my taste, but we could have fun with it.”
She snickers, amused but busy. The message is gentle and unmistakable: clear the field.
“Is this all for Eddie?” I ask.
“No. This is for the organization Eddie sells to.”
“Who’s Caroline?”
She pauses—fraction of a beat—enough to register she clocked my eavesdropping.
“My boss.”
I’d thought Hudson wore that crown. “Who called?”
“A colleague. Syd.”
“Did I meet her?” I already know the answer.
“No. She’s on the West Coast. If we need her, she’ll join. For now, remote support.”
“And she’s a friend?”
“Why the twenty questions?”
Because every detail is earned, and I’m trying not to pry the way I want to. She’s doing the work she’s built her life around; she won’t abandon it because I dislike the idea of her loading a handgun before breakfast.
“Text me. During the day.” It’s not a request.
She stills, studies my face. The facade thins, and there she is—the softness from last night, the woman in the kitchen making coffee the way I prefer. “Worried about me?”
“Terrified,” I admit. “You’re carrying a gun and dressed like—” I tip my head, taking her in. “A bike courier or a hungover university student.”
She steps closer until her scent finds me beneath the costume. Her palm comes to rest over my heart.
“This is what I do, Adrien. What I’m good at.” Gentle, firm. “I’ll check in. And we’ll set dinner.”
“You know your team watches the club’s comings and goings on tape,” I say, trying for light and failing.
“True. But we’re studying interactions. Cameras miss nuance.”
“So who are you watching like this?”
“If Eddie leaves during the day. Or his contacts.” A small lift of one shoulder. “Assignments shift.”
“Then dinner,” I say. The word feels like a promise. “As long as you’re careful.”
As she locks her door, and turns for the stairwell, I catch her wrist gently. “Brie.” She pauses, and the disguise falls away for the span of a breath. It’s just her—and the truth I can’t pretend away. “Be careful,” I say quietly. “Some of us don’t recover from the same loss twice.”