The evening swelled. More arrivals, more champagne, an auctioneer's voice lifting above the chatter as a surrealist canvas sold for a sum that could fund a hospital. Emily found herself cornered briefly by a journalist from Le Monde, who pressed about Lumina's ambitions in Europe. She answered carefully, mindful of phrasing, aware that anything she said could become tomorrow's headline.
Duval, sensing his moment, drifted closer. His presence was a wall of charm and wealth, his cologne faint but insistent. He cut into her answers with a smooth authority, as though he had been the architect of Lumina's vision himself. "Mademoiselle Richardson speaks with such passion," he told the journalist, his hand brushing Emily's lightly, deliberately, as he angled her toward the better light. "But you must understand, she is not alone in this endeavour. Paris recognizes talent, yes, but it also nurtures it. She has my full support."
The journalist scribbled furiously, delighted at the headline practically writing itself. A camera from a nearby tabloid crew swung toward them, its lens narrowing in.
Before Emily could politely disengage, Duval leaned in too close, his smile wide for the cameras — and pressed the faintest kiss against her cheek, lingering just long enough to blur propriety into something suggestive. The bulbs flared instantly, the burst of paparazzi shutters cutting through the music like machine-gun fire. Heads turned. Whispers rose.
Emily froze, her champagne flute trembling in her grip. She knew exactly what those frames would look like once they landed in the gossip columns: the ambitious British founder, radiant and slightly flushed, Duval bent in close with a proprietary hand at her elbow. A headline bloomed in her mind like a bruise: The Investor and His Protégée — More Than Business?
"Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle Richardson!" another voice called, this one sharper, from a reporter angling through the crowd. "Tell us, are you and Monsieur Duval… a couple?"
The journalist's question did not fade. It hung in the air like incense, cloying and impossible to ignore. "Are you and Monsieur Duval a couple?" The phrasing, French-accented but sharp, carried farther than it should have.
Another camera flash. Then another. The clicks rose in a chorus that set Emily's nerves thrumming. She could almost hear the copy being written: Lumina's Founder and Her Patron
The question struck like a thrown stone. Around them, the surrounding guests, industrialists, patrons, politicians slowed their conversations, curiosity tilting toward scandal.
Emily's throat went dry, Her lips parted, desperate to form a denial, but Duval was quicker, tightened his grip on her arm and laughed, a warm, effortless sound that invited misunderstanding. He chuckled, rich and unbothered, as though he relished the spectacle. His arm curled more firmly around hers. "Ah, Parisians do love their stories," he said lightly, yet his gaze flicked to her with the weight of a dare. "Let them write what they will. After all, a man is permitted to admire genius when he sees it, no?"
The line struck its mark. More shutters. More pens scratching. Emily's face flushed hot, her heartbeat erratic. She tried to step back, to find an angle where she was not framed by his shadow, but found herself caught in the cameras' crossfire, the lights pinned her in place like a butterfly beneath glass.
The room hummed with the implication. And Sofia, watching from across the room, did not miss the optics. her eyes caught every second. Her lips curled into the faintest, most satisfied smile because this, this tableau of suspicion and intimacy, was more effective than any confrontation she could have engineered.
Sofia's smile was small, sharp, and private. Perfect. She had not needed to lift a finger. Duval had done the work for her, turning Emily's debut into a stage play of compromise. By dawn, the whispers would spread: Emily Richardson was not an independent visionary but the pretty pawn of a wealthy Parisian patron. A kept woman in couture. The narrative would stick like tar.
Her eyes glittered as she sipped at last, savouring the bubbles as though toasting to Emily's undoing. This was the arena Sofia thrived in not boardrooms or businesses, but perception. And perception was lethal.
But then — a shift.
It began with silence. A ripple through the crowded gallery, subtle but undeniable. The way conversations dimmed as eyes turned toward the entrance hall. The string quartet faltered on a note. Even the reporters seemed to sense it, lowering their cameras just slightly as though instinct told them the real story had just arrived.
Emily, frozen in Duval's orbit, felt the change before she saw it. Her skin prickled with awareness, a sudden electricity along her spine. She turned her head. and there he was.
Alexander Gray.
When the reporters turned, they noticed him too. The Gray name carried its own gravity. Lenses shifted, shutters firing faster.
Standing still like a force that bent the atmosphere around him. No need for introduction, no need for theatrics; the weight of his presence was enough. Tall, sharply tailored in black, his expression unreadable, his gaze sweeping once cool, incisive over the crowd in front of him.
The room seemed to rearrange itself around him.
Then the atmosphere shifted. Conversations stilled, laughter faltered. The cameras pivoted like iron filings drawn to a magnet.
Even Duval's easy confidence faltered a fraction, his smile twitching as he straightened, loosening his grip on Emily's arm though not yet releasing her.
For Emily, dread and relief warred inside her. Relief because she was no longer alone in this trap. Dread because she had no idea what Alexander had seen or what he believed.
Alexander's eyes lingered on her for the briefest beat, unreadable, before flicking toward Duval with an iciness that could have frozen champagne. The cameras had turned now too, lenses greedily hunting the new tension.
Emily's throat constricted. For a heartbeat she could not breathe, as though the cameras' flashes had stolen the oxygen from the room. Alexander's gaze, brief though it had been, burned into her skin with the weight of judgment.
What did he see?
The thought clawed at her, frantic, insistent. To him, from across the room, she must have looked complicit smiling stiffly under Duval's touch, framed by journalists as if basking in the attention. To him, she must have seemed to play into the very stereotype Sofia was salivating over: the ingénue, tethered to wealth.
Her pulse stuttered. She wanted to speak, to step forward, to wrench herself free and say this isn't what it looks like but the words lodged in her chest. If she broke from Duval now, in front of flashing cameras, wouldn't it look worse? A public scandal, an awkward denial, immortalized in headlines. If she stayed still, she risked confirming the rumour.
Her hand trembled against her gown. She curled it into a fist, nails biting her palm to steady herself.
Emily's stomach twisted. She wanted to recoil, but every angle was a trap and somewhere across the marble floor stood Alexander, watching. She could not tell if it was disappointment she'd seen in his eyes, or something colder.
Emily's pulse stuttered. To him, from across the room, she must have looked complicit: smiling stiffly under Duval's touch, framed as if basking in the attention. Panic burned in her chest.
Then movement.
Alexander Gray had entered.
The crowd parted without being asked, instinctively making way for him as though power itself demanded space. The murmurs hushed into silence again, cameras shifting in his direction, lenses hungry for the collision they sensed was about to come.
His gaze no longer skimmed. It locked. First on Emily sharp, searching, a single second that seemed to strip her bare. then onto Duval, with a stillness that was somehow more menacing than anger.
He cut through the gallery as if the air itself parted for him — no announcement, no effort, just presence. Tailored black, immaculate, eyes like glass knives sweeping the scene. The journalists' lenses abandoned Duval and Emily in a heartbeat, trained instead on the man whose name carried weight continents away.
Duval stiffened. His smile faltered, then hardened again, and he tightened his grip on Emily's arm, as though to make a point. For Duval, this was an opportunity.
He turned Emily slightly so she faced the same direction, angling her toward Alexander like a trophy on display. His smile sharpened, and he raised his glass in Gray's direction. "Monsieur Gray,"
"Ah," he said lightly, voice pitched for those near enough to hear. "Monsieur Gray. he said, switching to English now for the benefit of the press, You grace us after all. Paris is honored."
Alexander stopped just short of him. For a beat too long, he said nothing, he only deliberately let his gaze travel to Duval's hand,the hand Duval still kept on Emily. Emily's strained composure, the cluster of reporters.
He did not speak at once and that silence, heavy and merciless, was worse than words. His silence spoke louder than any accusation. The air throbbed with it.
Emily's pulse was a frantic staccato. She wanted to explain, to shake her head, to cry out that this wasn't what it looked like, but the cameras were everywhere, their flashes catching every line of tension in her face. She dared not move.
Finally, Alexander's voice cut through with a voice that slid over the marble like ice, smooth and soft. he said: "Monsieur Duval," he said, "your hospitality is noted."
The words were polite. The tone was not.
Duval gave a short laugh, performative, though his jaw tightened. "Paris is small, monsieur. Influence even smaller. We each know the value of appearances." His gaze sharpened, almost taunting. "Especially when they concern charming company." He lifted Emily's hand, deliberately, for the cameras to see. "surely you would agree? Paris is not London. Here, one must know how to claim what one desires."
The implication was shameless, reckless — Duval practically dared Alexander to react.
The crowd held its breath.
Alexander looked forward, slow, deliberate, every eye drawn to the way space seemed to adjust around him. He didn't look at Duval at first; his gaze brushed over Emily — one unreadable flicker, enough to unsettle her further before settling coolly on his would be challenger.
"You mistake visibility for power," Alexander said, voice low, precise. "Paris has a short memory. Today's photographs line tomorrow's wastebaskets. But reputation… reputation doesn't wash away so easily." His gaze flicked deliberately to Emily, then back to Duval. "And attaching yours to something you cannot hold will not strengthen it."
The sentence landed like a blade.
The reporters caught it, instantly sensing the tension. Flashbulbs exploded. Whispers rippled through the crowd. The journalists froze, pencils hovering mid-scratch. The message was clear but maddeningly ambiguous.
Was he dismissing Duval's ploy because he saw Emily as beneath his notice? Or was it because he would not allow anyone else to weaponize her in his presence?
Duval laughed brittle, defensive. No, no. You misunderstand. I invest in brilliance. I amplify it. And Paris understands the value of alliances." His eyes gleamed as he leaned closer to Emily, loud enough for microphones to catch: "After all, what is genius without support?"
Emily stiffened, blood roaring in her ears.
Alexander tilted his head, his mouth curling into something that was not a smile. "Support?" His tone was knife-sharp, controlled. "True genius doesn't need scaffolding to stand." His eyes never left Duval's. "And Emily Richardson is not a painting you can hang on your wall."
The words detonated. A low gasp rolled through the room. Sofia's glass paused midway to her lips.
Duval's mask cracked, anger seeping through. "You speak boldly, Monsieur Gray," he said, his voice tightening, "but perhaps Paris will decide whose vision it prefers. Some men only critique. Others… build."
The jab landed clumsily.
With calculated ease, Alexander stepped fractionally closer, close enough that the cameras strained to catch both men in the frame. enough that the air between them thickened, close enough that every watching eye felt the threat without a word spoken.
Alexander stepped closer, his expression His voice lowered but the press leaned in, desperate not to miss a word.
"Men who build on sand always mistake it for stone. You'll forgive me if I don't envy your foundations."
That was it. Subtle, merciless, and absolute. Duval flushed, his jaw set but he couldn't recover. The gallery knew it. The press knew it. And Emily, trembling between them, knew Alexander had just erased Duval with a sentence.
Alexander's gaze shifted back to her then brief, unreadable, but scorching all the same. And in that heartbeat, Emily understood whatever he believed about what he'd walked into, Alexander had spoken in her defense. Not gently. Not kindly. But unmistakably.
The silence that followed stretched too long. Even the journalists, who lived for scandal, hesitated as if unsure whether Duval had just been crowned or cut down.
And in that hesitation, Duval felt it, the shift. Power sliding out of his grasp.
Duval's smile thinned as Alexander's words settled over the room like frost. The laughter, the murmurs, even the shutters of the cameras seemed muted against the precision of the dismissal.
Duval's grin faltered. For a moment he held the line, but his knuckles whitened around his glass. He wanted to laugh it off, to retort that Paris was his ground, that men like Gray could not dictate everything but the weight of centuries behind Alexander's family name, the breadth of the Gray empire, the quiet steel in that gaze… it crushed the bravado out of him.
He had stepped forward certain, bold Paris was his arena, his court. For a moment, he had believed he could pull Alexander Gray into it, force him to spar in public where charm and flamboyance could win over steel. But Alexander had not played. He had not even raised his voice. With a single phrase, he had hollowed Duval out, turned his grand gesture into a spectacle of vanity.
His pulse beat fast against his collar. He remembered, with a sudden, gut-deep clarity, the scale of the empire Alexander commanded. The Gray's were not Parisian financiers chasing headlines. They were the unseen scaffolding of European industry — banks, shipping, technology, dynasties interwoven with governments. Men like Alexander did not compete in salons, they allowed others to posture while they moved capitals.
A tremor of unease rippled through him. One wrong word, one insult too sharp, and doors would quietly close. Accounts would thin. Allies would vanish. Paris was his playground but the Gray's owned the continent.
So instead, he swallowed. His smile returned, brittle now, and he inclined his head as though conceding nothing.
Duval's laughter returned, but it was forced now, brittle at the edges. He released Emily's arm at last, his gesture meant to look casual though his fingers ached from tension.
Before the silence could turn fatal, Étienne de Varenne sensing the danger of scandal in his pristine halls, seized the moment with practiced grace. He strode forward with theatrical timing, smiling broadly to both men, raising his own glass high.
"A toast!" he declared, voice booming over the murmur. "To old friendships, to art, and to the continued vision of men like Alexander Gray, without whom gatherings such as these would not shine so brightly!"
Relieved laughter rippled through the room. Glasses lifted. The pressure broke like a spell, society eager to stitch itself back into order.
"Mesdames, Messieurs," he continued, his voice cutting through the heaviness. "Another toast — to the future of vision! To Lumina, to art, to innovation, and to the rare company of men such as Monsieur Duval, and Monsieur Gray."
Duval seized it, clinking his glass high, hiding the tightness in his jaw behind the brilliance of his smile. To anyone watching, he looked unshaken, gracious even. But inside, his pride throbbed raw, carved open by a man who hadn't even needed to lift his sword. Emily saw the flicker in his eyes, the quick retreat of a man reminded too late of where true power rested.
Alexander accepted the toast with the smallest nod, he clinked his glass with Étienne de Varenne, accepting the toast his gaze unreadable, his glass raised without flourish. Not triumph, not anger. Just certainty. But his eyes flickered once more toward Duval not openly hostile, but dismissive, a reminder that the reprieve had not come from mercy, but from convenience.
The gallery erupted in applause. Crystal chimed. Relief filled the air like perfume. But Emily stood in the middle of it, her hands cold, her pulse still hammering.
The room shifted at once, applause rising, glasses lifted. The attention swung neatly away from the confrontation. Duval was spared open humiliation, tucked beneath the cover of polite society's rituals.
And Duval knew it.
Duval realized, was worse than any public humiliation. Alexander Gray hadn't fought him. He had dismissed him.
Duval laughed with the crowd when the toast was raised, lifting his glass, but his throat was tight and dry. The applause blurred in his ears, every clap and cheer striking like mockery. He felt the weight of Alexander's gaze even when it shifted away, that subtle dismissal cutting deeper than open scorn.
He made Duval look small. In front of the press.
To the press, it would seem as though the moment had passed — Paris had moved on, swallowed the tension whole. But Emily knew better,
Emily, standing beside him, felt the tremor of pride raw beneath the veneer.
Her gaze found Alexander again across the glittering crowd. He stood tall, detached, the toast now finished, his glass lowered. Their eyes met only for a second. It was only a heartbeat, a fleeting connection across the chandeliers and gilded air, but it struck her harder than all the camera flashes combined. His eyes held no accusation, no rescue, no comfort.
There was no warmth there, no indulgence. Only acknowledgment. He had seen. He had witnessed her caught in another man's orbit.
Her breath caught. Did he think she was compromised? That she had invited Duval's hand at her arm, his kiss too close to her cheek, his brazen claim before the press? She wanted to step forward, to protest, to insist she had been cornered but the words had nowhere to go.
Her stomach twisted. Did he think her complicit? Did he believe she'd bartered her ambition for Duval's patronage? Or had he only intervened because Lumina's image and by extension, his own interests demanded it?
The ambiguity rattled her more than anger would have. If he'd scorned her openly, she could have fought against it. But that unreadable look, that certainty that belonged to him alone, left her suspended in doubt.
Because Alexander Gray had not asked her a question. He had only looked.
And that, somehow, was worse.
Around her, laughter and applause, The music swelled again, a waltz drifting in from the quartet, restoring glamour to the room as though nothing had happened. Guests clinked glasses and broke into laughter, leaning into new conversations. to gossip, to soft applause for another auction win. Sofia's eyes still gleamed from across the crowd, her lips curling with private satisfaction. To her, Emily had already lost.
Duval laughed with the crowd, but his throat worked tight, and the edge of humiliation clung to him like a shadow.
But Emily could not shake the weight of that glance. Her champagne untouched in her hand, felt as though she were the only one still standing on a battlefield. In Alexander's world, to be seen was both a privilege and a danger.
As the gala thinned, Alexander finally retrieved what he had come for a folio bound in dark leather, its spine cracked with age from the hands of the curator. He accepted it with the same unhurried finality with which he had raised his glass earlier, as though centuries of knowledge were his due. In the shimmer of jewels and champagne laughter, no one watching would have guessed that the battered volume was worth more than the diamonds glittering on wrists around him.
When Emily finally caught sight of Alexander again, he was descending the marble staircase, his manner composed, unhurried, as though he had spent the night above the fray. As though the evening had passed without disturbance.
Emily's hand tightened around her champagne flute until the stem pressed sharp into her palm. She told herself it was only Duval's stunt, only Sofia's satisfaction, only the press with their hungry shutters. But beneath it all, what unsettled her most was the knowledge that Alexander had seen and left her to wonder what conclusion he had drawn.
And in a city like Paris, where perception was power, she knew that might matter more than truth.
Alexander did not linger after the toast. While conversations swelled again inside the Galerie de Varenne, he moved toward the exit with Ash and Ryan at his flanks. the crowd parting instinctively to allow the trio passage. Their presence was discreet yet commanding, a reminder that Alexander Gray did not move through the world alone, nor unguarded.
The press, emboldened by the wine and the promise of a headline, clustered near the exit. Flashbulbs sparked, questions thrown like nets into the air, "Mr. Gray, was that exchange with Duval business or personal?""Is Gray Innovation's backing the Musée's restoration project?""Can we expect you at the Geneva auction next month?"
Alexander did not break stride. His gaze slid past the cameras as though they were shadows on glass, his silence answering more than words ever could. Ash deflected with a quiet but firm, "No comments tonight," while Ryan's measured glance was enough to make one overeager reporter lower her microphone.
Even the gallery's marble staircase seemed to amplify his descent, each step echoing a kind of restrained grandeur. There was no flourish, no acknowledgment of the stir he left behind. Only the inevitability of his presence and his absence.
He left quietly, His convoy was already waiting. He did not look back as he left.
Outside, the air was cooler, but the atmosphere carried its own weight, two black sedans idled at the curb, engines low, their drivers already in position.
The Galerie's marble steps were bathed in white light, and outside the Paris night pressed thick against the floodlit courtyard. Reporters and photographers clustered like carrion birds, lenses craning, voices eager. Yet the steps themselves had been kept surprisingly clear. A pair of security men, dressed not in uniforms but in tailored suits, formed a discreet cordon. They did not touch anyone, did not speak, yet their silent choreography pressed the crowd back just enough. Cameras flashed, questions flew.
The first questions hit as soon as Alexander appeared.
"Mr. Gray, a moment—!"
"Mr. Gray, a word about Lumina—"
"Sir, are you backing tonight's acquisitions—?"
"Sir, how do you view tonight's auction—"
The words tangled over one another, yet none reached him. He descended slowly, calmly, every line of his posture composed. Ash was already ahead, her expression cutting a path through the noise, while Ryan shadowed Alexander's shoulder, eyes scanning the line of photographers as though counting them, he scanned the faces in the crowd with clinical sharpness, noting the restless, the overeager, the too-still.
The sedans waited at the curb, their engines idling low, headlights spilling pale across the cobblestones. Alexander slid into the first without pause; Ryan followed, Ash taking the second vehicle. By the time the convoy's doors closed around him outside, the press still buzzing with unanswered questions, the room inside had not quite recovered. He had left quietly, yes but with a gravity that clung to the air, as though Paris itself had tilted for a moment to mark his passing.
Within moments the convoy pulled away without fuss, headlights sliding into Paris traffic tires rolling smooth as silk over ancient streets. The paparazzi swarmed for a moment, then fell back, unable to pierce the layered movements of men and machines designed to outpace them.
Through the tinted Alexander sat in silence, the folio resting against his lap, his gaze fixed outward but unreadable. The men flanking him spoke little. Security was not chatter; it was vigilance in silence.
By the time the convoy merged onto the périphérique, the choreography had already shifted. Another vehicle joined them seamlessly from a side street — a shadow car, identical, its windows just as black. To anyone watching, it might have seemed coincidence. To anyone who knew, it was another layer of Ravenswood discipline prepared for contingencies no one else would ever see.
The convoy threaded through Paris with quiet efficiency, crossing Place de la Concorde, then the sweep of the Seine, before the highway toward Le Bourget Airport — the city's discreet playground for the powerful. The highway to Le Bourget opened up like a private artery.
At Le Bourget, the airport had already been prepared. security deepened. The perimeter had already been secured by a team flown in earlier. The security team had already cleared the path. No terminal lines, no waiting lounges.
A private terminal stood lit against the darkness. A Gulfstream G700 sat on the tarmac, engines purring low, its polished surface reflecting the floodlights. The convoy eased into the perimeter, and immediately the security presence deepened. Six more men appeared from within the terminal, walking parallel to Alexander as he stepped from the sedan. They kept pace without crowding him, their spacing calculated, their eyes never still.
A few reporters had trailed, their lenses catching the silhouettes as he stepped out of the car.
The press, barred behind a rope line fifty yards away, Reporters that had managed to trail him this far. A few shouted from behind a roped-off barrier, their voices thinned by distance.
"Mr. Gray, is Paris a new front for your investments?""Do you consider Duval a rival?" "Mr. Gray, Paris welcomes you, but is London ready for your next move?""Sir, would you comment on the rumours of your interest in European acquisitions?""Mr. Gray, how do you respond to claims of rivalry with Duval?" "Mr. Gray is it true Lumina is expanding into continental Europe?" one called, in accented English. Another: "Do you consider Duval's investments competition to your firm?"
The cameras flared even at this distance, desperate to catch his profile against the stark angles of the jet. Alexander did not pause, did not glance toward them. and the only acknowledgment Alexander offered was a brief turn of his head, not to the press, but toward the captain waiting at the foot of the stairs. He moved as if the path had been built for him alone, coat sweeping lightly in the tarmac breeze. The folio never left his grasp.
The security line absorbed the noise, containing it like walls of glass. Within moments, the door of the jet sealed, the voices outside lost to the hush of pressurized air. the outside world falling away. Inside, the silence was immediate cushioned leather, muted light, the deep hum of engines. Papers were reviewed. Notes exchanged. Ryan settled opposite, already scanning the itinerary for London. Ash reclined but did not relax, her eyes always alert.
The flight itself was swift and quiet, barely two hours. No champagne, no chatter, Only the steady drones of sounds of engines carrying them across the Channel. and the muted glow of documents spread across the mahogany fold-out table. The folio he had collected from the curator lay open under a soft reading lamp. Ash leaned forward once, murmuring something about a scheduled call, but otherwise, the cabin was a cocoon of silence.
London appeared less than two hours later, the city glittering beneath a layer of mist, shrouded in its familiar grey when they landed at Farnborough. The descent was smooth, the transition seamless from jet to waiting helicopter, its blades chopping against the dawn mist. The city fell away beneath them, the Thames a silver ribbon, the glass towers of the financial district gleaming like a fortress.
Ravenswood did not require him to reenter like a common traveler that drive in through city streets, the estate's size allowed for its own helipad, tucked discreetly behind the west gardens. The helicopter transfer from Farnborough took less than fifteen minutes, banking low over fields before setting down with a controlled shudder on the slate-marked pad.
Ravenswood appeared as the clouds broke its spires and stone sweeping across acres of manicured land, a private world set apart from London's sprawl. The helicopter descended onto the slate-marked pad with military precision in the west gardens, where the lawn had been reinforced discreetly for such arrivals. The house rose behind it, its windows catching the weak morning light.
The helicopter's blades slowed to a gradual sigh as it touched down on the west lawn of Ravenswood. Dawn had barely brushed the horizon; the sky was a bruised grey, streaked with pale silver. The manor loomed against it sharp, solemn, its gothic spires spearing the mist.
As the rotors slowed, Ash was the first onto the gravel, scanning the perimeter out of habit, while Ryan followed carrying the case from the jet.
Alexander stepped out. The downwash stirred the long grass and pressed the coat against his frame, the cold air laced with the faint scent of rain and iron. He did not look tired. He rarely did. The flight from Paris had been efficient, silent. A world sealed from the city's noise and speculation.
Ash and Ryan followed, both moving with the synchronized ease of men long accustomed to precision. Behind them, two other members of Gray's personal detail emerged from the second aircraft, ex-MI5 men, silent shadows in tailored coats. They had shadowed the convoy through Paris, managed clearance at Le Bourget, secured flight paths that avoided both press and prying eyes. Every movement had been measured, pre-approved, untraceable.
As Alexander crossed the landing pad, one of the security men murmured into his earpiece, "Home perimeter clear. External scans complete. No media coverage on your route."
Alexander gave a curt nod. "Maintain surveillance for forty-eight hours," he said quietly. "The press won't sleep on this one."
He didn't have to specify which story. The Paris exchange would already be dissected, Gray, Duval, Lumina. There would be headlines in every business page by morning, most of them guessing, all of them wrong.