France had been quiet when I arrived. Not the kind of quiet that came from emptiness, but the kind that belonged to places where immense wealth had no need to announce itself. The estate I had prepared for Althea and the twins stood behind, imposing wrought-iron gates in one of France’s most prestigious private enclaves. It was surrounded by acres of meticulously landscaped grounds, ancient cypress trees, sculpted gardens, and a private stone driveway that disappeared into the property like a road reserved for royalty. The residence itself was breathtaking. It was a magnificent French château, built from pale limestone and designed with the grandeur of a centuries-old aristocratic estate. Tall windows stretched across the upper floors, framed by intricate stonework. Elegant balconies overlooked the gardens, while rows of warm lights illuminated the façade against the evening darkness. A private fountain stood at the center of the courtyard, surrounded by perfectly trimmed hedges
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