At 4:17 on my wedding afternoon, the man I had loved for three years raised his hand before the officiant could ask me to say I do.

The celebration in London spilled over into an intimate, late-night gathering at a private penthouse overlooking the Thames. The city lights glittered across the dark water like scattered diamonds, and the smooth strains of jazz saxophone drifted softly from the Sonos speakers.

Nora stood by the open terrace doors, the cool English breeze lifting the dark strands of her hair. She held a glass of sparkling water, feeling a profound, unshakeable peace settle deep into her bones. The ghosts of her past—Marcus Keller, Richard Vance, the stolen patents, the suffocating compromises—were finally nothing more than distant memories fading into the rearview mirror.

Julian walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin softly on her shoulder. He breathed in the scent of her perfume, a familiar, comforting anchor.

"Penny for your thoughts, master architect," Julian murmured against her neck, a playful smile playing on his lips.

"I was just thinking about how quiet the world sounds when nobody is trying to steal your blueprints," Nora replied softly, leaning back into his embrace.

Julian chuckled, turning her gently in his arms so she was facing him. "Well, get used to the quiet, because our calendar is completely clear for the next two weeks. No board meetings, no hostile takeovers, no federal marshals. Just you, me, and a private villa in the Amalfi Coast."

Nora’s eyes lit up. "Amalfi? Are you serious?"

"Completely serious," Julian said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out two first-class airline tickets stamped for Rome the following morning. "I figured the woman who just redesigned the skyline of London deserves a little Mediterranean sunshine."

Before Nora could answer, her private cell phone, resting on the marble table nearby, buzzed with a sharp, insistent vibration.

Both of them froze. In the world they had navigated, phone calls late at night usually meant a new crisis, a leaked memo, or an unexpected threat.

Julian’s jaw tightened slightly, his protective instincts instantly flaring back to life. "Do you want me to get it?"

Nora shook her head, a calm, self-assured smile touching her lips. "No. Let’s see who thinks they can interrupt our honeymoon."

She walked over to the table and picked up the phone. The caller ID displayed a restricted, private number originating from a federal correctional facility upstate.

Her heart didn't skip a beat this time. There was no terror, no panic—only a cold, detached curiosity. She pressed accept and put the phone on speaker, placing it on the table between them.

"Nora?" a voice crackled through the speaker, distorted by the prison telephone lines, sounding thin, raspy, and utterly hollow.