He nods acknowledgment. "We'll meet in the sitting room in twenty minutes for breakfast, if that suits your needs."
"That's fine," I agree, opening the door to discover a bedroom of understated luxury—pale blue walls, elegant furnishings, French doors opening to a private balcony overlooking immaculate gardens. My clothing has indeed been unpacked, arranged in built-in wardrobes with careful attention to category and color.
I wash my face and brush my teeth. The woman in the mirror looks composed if distant.
When I return to the sitting room, Gage waits near French doors that open onto a stone terrace. He's changed intofresh clothing—casual by his standards, though still impeccably tailored. He turns at my entrance, studying me with that assessing gaze.
"The morning room is this way," he says, opening a door that leads to a light-filled space where breakfast has been arranged on a table positioned to capture views of both garden and distant Paris skyline.
We eat in companionable silence—fresh pastries, fruit, coffee that reminds me what the beverage is supposed to taste like. Despite everything, my appetite has returned after the stress-induced reduction of recent weeks, my body demanding sustenance.
"The villa and grounds are entirely at your disposal," Gage says as we finish. "Security is maintained discretely—the perimeter walls and entrance gate are monitored continuously, but staff have been instructed to maintain maximum privacy within the property boundaries."
Another beautiful prison.
"Are we expected to make public appearances?" I ask, the question practical rather than challenging.
"Not during the first week," he replies. "I've arranged for complete privacy to allow adjustment to the time difference and new surroundings. The second week includes several carefully selected engagements—dinner at a private club, an evening at the opera, perhaps an appearance at a gallery opening if you're interested in art."
I nod without comment.
"There's a library on the main floor that might interest you," he continues. "And the gardens include several sitting areas designed for privacy and contemplation."
"Thank you," I say, rising from the table. "I think I'll explore the gardens this morning, if that's acceptable."
"Of course." He remains seated, reaching for his tablet that has appeared beside his place setting. "I have several calls to make despite being officially unavailable. Business matters that couldn't be delegated. Please feel free to explore as you wish."
The gardens prove to be a revelation—not merely decorative spaces but carefully designed rooms without walls, each with distinct character and purpose. A rose garden that transitions to a more naturalistic woodland area, then to a formal parterre with geometric precision, finally opening to a hidden pond surrounded by weeping willows.
I find a stone bench beneath one of the willows, sitting to watch light play across water disturbed only by occasional fish movements. The beauty is undeniable, the tranquility almost enough to ease the constant tension that has become my companion.
Hours pass as I explore further, discovering hidden statuary, a small greenhouse filled with exotic specimens, a kitchen garden that likely supplies the house with fresh herbs and vegetables. Throughout my wanderings, I sense rather than see security personnel maintaining discreet distance.
When I return to the villa in late afternoon, I find Gage in the library—a magnificent space of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, comfortable leather chairs, and windows that cast golden light across ancient rugs.
"You found the gardens agreeable?" he asks, setting aside documents he'd been reviewing.
"They're beautiful," I acknowledge honestly. "Clearly designed by someone who understood both horticulture and human nature."
"My mother," he says unexpectedly. "She redesigned them after we acquired the property. The original gardens had fallen into disrepair."
"She had remarkable vision," I offer cautiously. "The transition between formal and naturalistic spaces shows genuine artistic sensitivity."
His expression softens slightly. "She found peace in creating beauty," he says after a moment. "It was her way of imposing order on circumstances beyond her control."
The parallel to my own use of floral design isn't lost on me, though I choose not to highlight it. "Did she spend much time here?" I ask instead.
"As much as was permitted," he replies, the careful phrasing revealing more than perhaps intended. "This villa was her preferred residence during her final years."
I absorb this information silently, recognizing it as significant though not yet understanding exactly how. "Thank you for sharing that," I say finally.
He nods, returning to his usual controlled demeanor. "Dinner will be served at seven, either in the formal dining room or on the terrace if you prefer the evening air."
"The terrace would be lovely," I reply, responding to the offered choice with genuine preference rather than passive acceptance.
"I'll inform Madame Rousseau," he says, rising from his chair. "If you'll excuse me, I have one final call before we transition to evening."
Alone in the library, I browse shelves that contain an impressive collection spanning centuries and languages. Many volumes show signs of actual reading rather than decorative acquisition—cracked spines, occasional pencil notations in margins, the subtle evidence of books that serve purpose beyond appearance.
