Novels by Jules

(Aria's Point of View)Grief, I've learned, doesn't come politely. It doesn't wait for a convenient moment, doesn't schedule itself around wars and Tribunal threats and the ongoing business of survival. It finds the cracks in your armor and seeps in sideways, usually when you're doing something completely unrelated to the thing you're grieving.It hits me at eleven-seventeen in the morning, while I'm eating a bowl of soup I don't remember asking for.One moment I'm reviewing surveillance data on the Tribunal's media assets, tracking the bot network Isabella flagged yesterday, following the digital breadcrumbs through seventeen shell accounts back toward what I'm fairly certain is a coordinated server farm operating out of Eastern Europe. The next moment I pick up my phone to text Elena something stupid. A meme, of all things, something Alexei showed me that morning that she would have found genuinely hilarious. And I get as far as opening our conversation thread before I remember.No

(Aria's Point of View)Trauma doesn't always announce itself with dramatic collapse.Sometimes it arrives sideways. Through a door, or a sound, or the particular way light falls across a room. Through something so ordinary that the person experiencing it can't explain afterward why that specific thing, at that specific moment, was the thing that broke through.For Elena, it's Marco.The morning after her first full day of rest is quieter than the one before it. Elena eats breakfast in the kitchen with Natasha, which Sofia reports went well. Real food, two cups of tea, some color coming back into her face. Dr. Reeves does a follow-up examination and declares her physically progressing correctly. The rope burns are healing. The bruising is fading through its spectrum of colors toward resolution.I'm in the command center reviewing Meridian's network architecture with Isabella when Natasha appears in the doorway with an expression I've learned to read correctly in the weeks since she arr

(Aria's Point of View)There's a particular cruelty in having to say goodbye to someone twice. Once when they leave, and once when you finally accept they're not coming back.Elena leaves tomorrow at dawn.That fact sits in my chest like a stone as I stand outside her door at half past nine in the evening, holding a mug of chamomile tea I made myself because Sofia offered and I needed something to do with my hands. Through the door, I can hear the television murmuring. Some cooking show, low volume. Elena always put cooking shows on when she couldn't sleep. The sound of cheerful, uncomplicated problems. whether the soufflé will rise, whether the sauce will reduce. Was apparently her preferred antidote to the darker thoughts.I used to tease her about it relentlessly.I knock softly. "It's me."A pause. Then: "Come in."She's sitting up in bed, the blankets pooled around her waist, the television casting warm flickering light across her face. The bruising around her wrists is visible e

( Aria's Point of View )Some goodbyes happen slowly, giving you time to prepare. But those are rarely the ones that hurt less.Elena sat in the medical wing of Villa Moretti, wrapped in blankets despite the warm room, while Dr. Reeves examined her injuries. I stood by the door with Dante, watching through the glass as the doctor catalogued the damage. Bruises in various stages of healing, rope burns on her wrists, signs of dehydration and malnutrition."She'll recover physically," Dr. Reeves said when she emerged twenty minutes later. "But psychologically..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Mrs. Moretti, your friend has been through severe trauma. She's going to need extensive therapy, possibly medication for PTSD symptoms. And she needs to feel safe, which. Given the circumstances. Might be impossible while she remains in your orbit.""I know," I said quietly. "She's already asked for witness protection. Complete separation.""That's probably for the best," Dr. Reeves said gentl

( Aria's Point of View )Dawn breaks differently when you know someone you love is counting on you to save them.I stood in the Villa Moretti armory at five AM, watching Viktor's team prepare weapons and equipment with the kind of practiced efficiency that came from years of doing terrible things for what they hoped were good reasons. Mikhail was checking ammunition counts. Two of Viktor's operators were calibrating communication equipment. And Dante sat in the corner, struggling to put on tactical gear with his still-healing shoulder."You're not coming," I said for the third time."We've been over this," Dante replied for the third time. "Where you go, I go.""Your shoulder...""Is fine," Dante interrupted, wincing as he tried to tighten a strap. "Mostly fine. Fine enough.""You can barely lift your arm above your head," I pointed out."Then it's good I shoot with my right hand," Dante countered.Viktor appeared in the doorway, holding a tablet. "Reconnaissance is complete. We have

( Aria's Point of View )The world looks different when two hundred million people know your face. Smaller and infinitely more dangerous.I woke up to sunlight streaming through the French doors of the Rose Suite and the distant sound of helicopters. For a moment, I lay there trying to remember why that sound made my pulse spike with anxiety. Then it all came flooding back. The broadcast, the confession, the choice to expose everything.My phone sat on the nightstand, and even from across the room I could see it lit up with notifications. Hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe.I picked it up with trembling hands.The top notification was from Detective Chen: Press conference at federal building in two hours. Attorney General wants statement from you. Not optional.Below that, a message from Viktor: Perimeter security tripled. Media crews camped outside gates. Do not leave estate without full security detail.And one from Isabella that made my stomach drop: Found something. Elena's phone