In Theodore's villa,
The air was thick with the scent of tobacco. Theodore lounged back on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette pipe resting between his fingers, and a glint of glee in his eyes as he watched the news unfold on the screen before him.
On the television, Aveline stepped out of the Rolls-Royce with practiced grace. One hand held her hat, shielding her face, yet her clear and steady hazel eyes were visible. There was no hesitation in them, no flicker of anxiety, not even the faintest flinch as reporters hurled questions and protesters screamed her name mercilessly.
As she crossed the line of cameras, her hand shifted, and she placed the round hat properly on her head.
Theodore's grin faltered, the satisfaction draining from his expression.
