Isobel's POV
The café was small, wedged between a bookshop and a wine merchant, the kind of place that smelled like steamed milk and old paper. I'd picked it because it felt far enough from Etienne's estate to breathe without feeling watched.
I told Marie I needed air. She'd given me that worried look but she didn't stop me.
Julien was already there when I walked in, tucked into a corner with two cups cooling on the table. He rose when he saw me, relief loosening the tight line around his mouth.
"Isobel." His voice had that raw edge of someone who had been waiting. "Thank God you came."
I slid into the chair, letting my palms cup the warmth of the mug. The heat soaked into my fingers, steadied the flutter in my ribs. "You sounded urgent."
"Because it is urgent." He leaned in, elbows on the table. "How are you? Really. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." I forced the word out. "Still sore, but fine."
"And Etienne? Has he—"
