Leclerc. Charles' mystery wife. People knew she existed, but didn't know who she was. They'd caught glimpses. A blurred profile stepping into a waiting car. The back of her hand on the railing of a private yacht. A flash of her heels disappearing behind a hotel door in Vienna. Never enough for a headline. Never enough for confirmation.

Still, her name moved through circles where names meant something. Some said she came from old money. Others said she built everything herself. A few claimed she didn't even exist, that Charles made her up to keep people guessing. But those closest to the fire knew better. She was real. Quietly, sharply, dangerously real.

That week, something had gone wrong. Not loud, not public, nothing ever was, but beneath the surface, something had shifted. A supplier backed out of a deal they had no business walking away from. A name reappeared that they'd both made sure was buried. It wasn't an accident. It wasn't a coincidence. Someone was testing the boundaries.

It was late when she came back. Past midnight. The drive up to their house was quiet. Her phone hadn't rung once. No one was brave enough to contact her before she was ready. She stepped inside the house without a sound. The lights were low. The air smelled like vanilla and smoke. Charles was outside on the terrace, sleeves rolled, jaw clenched, dress shirt half-unbuttoned, the only light being the flickering Monte Carlos street lights in the distance, and the cigarette glowing in his hand.

She crossed to him, her heels clacking on the marble floor. He didn't look at her right away. Just took a drag, exhaled, eyes fixed on the dark line where the sea met the sky. Then finally, he spoke, his voice a low growl.

"Tell me who made the mistake."