Black tee. Black jacket.
He looked around the room once.
Then at me.
“Your clothes will get to you,” he said.
Before I could argue, he handed me a coffee and a warm croissant.
“Let’s go.”
I blinked.
He grabbed my duffel bag off the chair like my attitude didn’t exist.
Five minutes later, we were walking through the estate driveway.
We walked to a black Aston Martin parked near the gate.
Low. Sleek. Expensive enough to make my old friends faint.
Ares opened the passenger door for me.
He smirked.
“You ready for a nine-hour ride with me?”
I turned my nose up immediately. “We’re really driving to Paris?”
“Yup.” He leaned against the door casually. “That’s light work.”
I rolled my eyes and climbed into the seat. “Only a psychopath says nine hours is light work.”
The engine purred to life a moment later.
And just like that, we were pulling out of the Delacroix estate.
The road curved down the cliffs while Monaco slowly woke up around us.
I crossed my arms and stared out the window at first.
Still irritated.
Still half asleep.
But something strange happened after about twenty minutes.
The drive was… smooth.
Ares barely talked.
Just drove.
One hand on the wheel.
Relaxed.
Music played low through the speakers.
