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“Mr. Lucien⁠—”

Lucien’s hand flies to his chin. He wipes quickly, and I realize with a jolt of horror that there’s still evidence on his face.

Oh fuck.

But Lucien’s already composed himself. His breathing is still heavy, his chest rising and falling rapidly, but his voice comes out smooth, polite. He’s been trained his entire life to maintain composure even when the world is ending.

“Alan,” he says, and there’s only the slightest tremor in it. “I’m so sorry to interrupt.”

Alan sets the tongs down carefully. His expression shifts from surprise to concern. His voice is gentle when he speaks. “Is everything all right, Mr. Lucien?”

“I need the keys to the car,” Lucien says. His words come faster now. The composure is cracking at the edges. “The Range Rover. Where are the keys?”

Alan gestures toward the far end of the kitchen, near a door I assume leads outside. “On the hooks by the back door, sir.”

Lucien doesn’t wait. He’s already moving, pulling me with him across the pristine white tile floor. I glance back at Alan, who’s standing frozen with the cocktail shaker still in his hand. His mouth is slightly open.

Lucien reaches the wall of hooks. There must be a dozen of them, each holding different sets of keys. He scans them frantically. His hand is shaking as he reaches for one set, then another.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters under his breath.

Then he finds them. The Range Rover keys with the leather fob. He grabs them and holds them up, jingling them at me.

“Let’s go,” he says.

We rush out the back door before Alan can say another word.

The night air is cold. We’re in some kind of garden. Perfectly manicured boxwood hedges line a brick path. Gas lanterns cast golden light. It’s beautiful. It’s the kind of place you’d want to sit and have tea or whatever rich people do in gardens.

But we don’t have time for any of that.

Lucien vaults over the first hedge without breaking stride. I follow. My foot catches slightly on the top, but I push through, landing hard on the other side. We’re running now, fully sprinting across the lawn toward the ornate circular driveway.

The Range Rover is parked just under the overhang.

Lucien fumbles with the key fob. His hands are shaking so badly it takes him two tries to unlock the doors. We throw ourselves inside. Lucien in the driver’s seat. Me in the passenger seat.

The engine roars to life.

He throws it into drive and floors it.

We peel away from the mansion. I twist in my seat to look back at the house. The grand historic home with its manicured garden, gas lanterns, and family secrets.

Alan stands in the kitchen doorway, backlit by the warm interior light. His hand is raised like he’s not sure whether to wave or call us back.

Then we turn the corner, and he’s gone.

Lucien drives like he’s being chased. We blow through a stop sign, then another. The old streets of Charleston blur past us in a wash of stately architecture and Spanish moss.

“Lucien—”

“Not yet,” he says through gritted teeth.

So I don’t say anything. I just grip the door handle and try to breathe.

It’s not until we hit the highway, the same highway we took to get here, heading north, that he finally eases off the gas. We’re still going twenty over the speed limit, but at least we’re not actively running red lights anymore.

I turn to look at him.