Monday morning arrived with the sharp, cold precision of a military operation.
Amara woke up before the automated silk curtains had even begun to part. For a fleeting, disorienting second, she reached for the cheap plastic alarm clock she'd kept on her old nightstand, her hand fumbling in the dark. Instead of the familiar, scratched wood of her apartment furniture, her fingers met the smooth, freezing surface of a marble table.
The realization hit her like a bucket of ice water. The East Wing. The Mansion. The Bond.
