Elena liked the wine cellar.
It was quiet. Predictable. Cool even in summer. The scent—damp oak and old grapes—had a calming quality. Every Wednesday afternoon, she came down to dust, polish, reorganize. No one ever came here. It was hers. A little space beneath the noise.
She worked in silence, humming under her breath as her cloth swept across the dusty bottles. Vintage Bordeaux, year '73. Untouched for decades. The Wallenberns had thousands of bottles like it. Nobody drank them. Just symbols. Power in glass.
Then—footsteps.
She froze.
Stone-on-stone. Precise. Heeled. She recognized that sound.
No time.
Elena slipped behind the tallest rack near the far end, ducking behind a row of barrels. It was tight. Her back pressed against cool wood. She barely dared to breathe.
Robert Wallenbern entered, as if descending into a crypt.
