Franz was in the foyer at ten.
He'd been there since nine-thirty. Not pacing — Franz didn't pace. He stood near the window with his hands in his pockets and watched the drive, and if anyone had asked, he would have said he was thinking about nothing in particular. The paper bags were on the hall table behind him. Three of them. He'd gone out early, before the twins were awake, and come back with something for each of them.
He hadn't told Arianne. It wasn't the kind of thing you announced.
She came down the stairs at ten-fifteen.
He turned at the sound of her footsteps. And stopped.
She was wearing a cream sweater. Dark trousers. Flat shoes. Her hair was pulled back, but loosely — not the tight twist she wore to boardrooms and press conferences. No blazer. No heels. No armor.
He'd only ever seen her like this at home. Late nights in the kitchen. Early mornings before the twins came down. Never outside. Never walking into enemy territory.
