She laughs, and the carefree sound scatters across the waves.“And what does your long-term strategy look like, Adrien d’Avricourt?”
I reach for her hand, threading our fingers together despite the chill.“Well, let’s see.The strategy stems from goals.I aim to rebuild The Sanctuary into something worthy of its name.Learn what real luxury means—not just surface beauty, but authentic connection.I want to create something meaningful.And on a personal level…” I pause, meeting her eyes.“I want the same.”
“Long-term…lots of variables to account for.”
“The best plans are flexible.”I bring her hand to my lips, pressing a warm kiss to her skin.“Besides, I have an excellent consultant now.”
Her smile widens, and for a moment, the careful distance she maintains dissolves completely.This is the woman who found me in a bar and escaped with me, who disappeared from my life and left me searching across Europe, who walked back into my world and tore down the scaffolding around my illusions.
“I suppose I could be convinced to take on a long-term assignment,” she says.
“Good,” I murmur, pulling her closer as the wind picks up around us.“Because wherever you go, I plan to follow.”
As we stand there on the empty beach, waves rolling endlessly toward shore, I think about Celeste’s cards and the patterns she reads in their ancient symbols.But looking at Brie—really seeing her, not as Sophie from Monaco or as an intelligence professional, but as herself, complete and real and choosing to be here with me—I don’t need mystical guidance to know what the future holds.
Some unions don’t require prediction.They require courage, commitment, and the willingness to build something genuine in a world full of beautiful facades.
For the first time in years, I’m done selling fantasies.I’m ready to build a life—one we choose and keep.
Epilogue
Brie
Six Months Later
The yacht rocks gently beneath my feet, the Mediterranean stretching endless and blue beyond the rail.I’m standing exactly where I stood three and a half years ago, champagne flute forgotten in my hand, watching Monaco’s lights twinkle as dusk settles over the harbor.
Except this time, I’m not Sophie Dubois with a fake identity and an exit strategy.I’m just Brie.And I’m not alone.
“You’re thinking too hard.”Adrien’s voice comes from behind me, warm and familiar.His arms slide around my waist, pulling me back against his chest.“I can practically hear the gears turning.”
“I was just thinking about the last time we were here.”I lean into him, letting his warmth chase away the evening chill.“How different everything is now.”
“Better or worse?”
I turn in his arms to face him.He’s traded his usual suit for linen pants and a button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms—relaxed in a way he never was when we first reconnected.
“Infinitely better,” I say.“Though I do miss the thrill of a fling.”
He laughs, the sound rolling through his chest and into mine.“And I rather miss thinking you were an art consultant instead of a former CIA operative who could probably kill me seventeen different ways with a corkscrew.”
“Eighteen, actually.I learned a new technique last month.”
“Of course you did.”His lips brush my temple.“Should I be concerned that Hudson approved this vacation?”
“He practically insisted.Said I needed a holiday after the Foster case.”I grimace.That investigation had taken three months and involved more surveillance footage than I care to remember.“Though I suspect he wanted everyone to take a break so he and Quinn could have some time to regroup.”
“Have the two of them come out in the open?”
“Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”
We stand there for a moment, swaying with the yacht’s slow rhythm.The crew is somewhere below deck, giving us privacy as the sun sinks lower.The boat belongs to one of Adrien’s friends—a tech entrepreneur who owes him a favor and was more than happy to loan out his vessel for a week.
“I got a call from Margot today,” Adrien says, his tone shifting to something more serious.“She and Tommy are having dinner in Paris next week.”
I pull back slightly to look at him.“Anotheraccidentalmeeting?”
“Third one this month.”He shakes his head, smiling.“I give them six months before one of them admits what’s happening.”
