The suite was quiet in the way expensive places always were—thick carpets swallowing sound, glass walls keeping the city at a tasteful distance. Paris glittered outside like it was celebrating something Diane hadn't been invited to.
She stood by the window, arms crossed, nails biting into her sleeves.
She had once believed that loyalty was a currency.
Her father taught her that.
Not in words. Never in warmth. But in rules—unspoken, immovable rules that governed everything from how she spoke in public to who she was allowed to love.
Stand beside me, he'd said once, years ago, voice low and satisfied as cameras flashed around them.
And you'll never want for anything.
She had believed him.
She had given him everything.
She smiled when told.
Defended him when whispered about.
Learned when to speak and—more importantly—when to stay silent.
She learned how to keep secrets before she learned how to drive.
