She left behind the Italian luggage he had bought her in Milan, the diamond necklace from their anniversary, and every designer dress Camille had once complimented with thinly disguised envy.

At 9:47, Lena stepped through the front door with a faded charcoal carry-on and walked into the rain.

Marcus Webb, Adrian’s security chief, watched her cross the courtyard. “Mrs. Voss,” he called. “I can have a car brought around.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“At least take an umbrella.”

“I’ve spent seven years preparing for storms, Marcus.”