The two-hour deadline was a weapon. Charles wielded it with brutal efficiency, and the target was my composure. The ride back to the residence was a masterclass in tension. He didn't speak about Paris, or Lacroix, or the abrupt departure. He simply sat in the quiet hum of the Maybach, reviewing something on his tablet, his profile illuminated by the passing city lights. He was a fortress of calm, and the silence he projected was heavier than any shouted command.
I knew what he was doing, but would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me ruffled. I stared out the tinted window, my own expression a carefully constructed mask of neutrality, but my mind was racing, recalculating. This wasn't just a business trip; it was a mastery abduction, and I was the prize. Every piece of luggage, every document, every second of this journey was now a variable in his game, and I had to learn the new rules fast.
