The scent of jasmine hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the sterile, chlorine-tinged atmosphere that haunted Cassian’s waking hours. He stood on the terrace of Isabelle de Valois’s Parisian apartment, the city glittering beneath him like a scattered jewel box. He’d come to Paris ostensibly to manage Moreau Investments’ growing portfolio in France, but the truth was a far uglier, more self-serving beast. He was running. Running from the ghosts that echoed in the empty chambers of his Tuscan villa, running from the image of Elara’s accusing eyes, running from the suffocating guilt that threatened to drown him.