The curated beauty of the Conservatory Garden was a mockery. A perfect, manicured stage for an ugly game.
Sterling’s eyes were on me. I knew it as certainly as I knew my name. His surveillance team was a ghost in the periphery, their presence a weight on my skin. The diamond stud in my ear, the listening device, was a hot brand, a constant reminder that every word I spoke was a weapon, for me, or against me.
I found Julian Croft on a stone bench near the fountain, dappled in sunlight. He looked relaxed. He wasn’t. The tension in his shoulders betrayed him.
“Blair,” he said, his smile warm and practiced as he stood. “I’m glad you came.”
“Julian.” My voice was cool. “You mentioned our fathers.”
A flicker of appreciation in his eyes. “All business. A trait our families share.” He gesture
