GRACE
Victor looked exactly the same.
Pressed shirt, polished boots, that signature calm like he’d just stepped out of a meditation retreat. But I knew better. I’d known him long enough to recognize the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers tapped against his thigh like a metronome trying to keep time in a storm.
Alistair and I had arrived in New York just after sunset. The city buzzed around us, loud and alive, but Victor’s townhouse was quiet — too quiet. Like it was holding its breath.
“Grace,” he said, smiling as he opened the door. “Alistair. Come in.”
We stepped inside. The scent of bergamot and old books filled the air. Victor gestured toward the sitting room, where tea was already waiting. Of course it was.
“I appreciate you seeing us,” Alistair said, settling into the a
