Franz was in the foyer at ten o'clock.
He had been there since nine-thirty. He did not pace because Franz did not pace. He stood near the window with his hands in his pockets and watched the drive. No one asked what he was thinking. The paper bags sat on the hall table behind him, three of them. He had gone out early, before the twins were awake, and come back with something for each of them.
He had not told Arianne. It was not the kind of thing you announced.
She came down the stairs at ten-fifteen.
He turned at the sound of her footsteps, and he stopped.
She wore a cream sweater with dark trousers and flat shoes. Her hair was pulled back loosely, not the tight twist she wore to boardrooms and press conferences. No blazer. No heels. No armor.
He had only ever seen her like this at home. Late nights in the kitchen. Early mornings before the twins came down. Never outside. Never walking into enemy territory.
"You look —" He paused. "I expected a suit."
