Delacroix didn't go straight home.
He didn't trust that he wasn't being followed.
He walked three blocks down, blending into the crowd, before slipping into a luxury hotel lobby. It was one of those places where discretion was the currency that mattered most. No cameras. No questions. No names.
A place where powerful men hide when their world is on fire.
He entered the elevator, pressed the button for the top floor, and leaned back against the mirrored walls. His pulse was still erratic, his body still tense. But his mind was clearer now.
Aurora had backed him into a corner. But Richard had already put a gun to his head.
Delacroix knew one thing for certain—Aurora wasn't the one who would pull the trigger. At least not yet.
His fingers were still shaking as he pulled out his phone and dialed the only number that mattered.
It rang once. Twice.
Then—
"Mon amour?"
His wife's voice came through, softly. Very gentle.
