The Hôtel de Crillon carried its history without trying to prove it, its golden stone facade facing Place de la Concorde like it had always belonged there. It was Lacroix's territory, a choice meant to project his own legacy and stability.
Charles walked through the gilded, public rooms as if he owned them, his stride unhurried, his expression a mask of polite disinterest. I followed two steps behind, my own face a neutral expression I didn't have to think about anymore: I was the shadow, the observer, the silent threat.
The breakfast was served in a private salon, a room of muted creams and golds that felt both opulent and suffocating. Lacroix was already there, a man in his late sixties with a mane of silver hair and a politician's practiced smile. He wasn't alone. Two men, younger and sharper, flanked him. His sharks. They rose as we entered, their smiles not reaching their eyes.
