The summer heat in the valley was nothing like the stifling, concrete humidity of Manhattan. It was crisp, carrying the sharp scent of pine needles, crushed clover, and the cool, damp earth of the lower hills.Eli stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the guest cottage, pulling at the lapels of his suit jacket. It wasn't the dark, stifling uniform of the Saint Aurelius track squad, nor was it the severe, administrative charcoal Lucien had worn for years. It was a tailored linen suit in a shade of pale, washed navy light, comfortable, and completely his own.Behind him, the room was a chaotic storm of quiet prep. His mother sat on the edge of the plush armchair, wearing a soft lavender dress that made her dark eyes stand out. Her hands, once thin and trembling during those terrifying months before rehab, were steady as she smoothed the folds of her skirt."Stop pulling at the silk, Eli," she said, her voice warm, southern, and steady. "You're going to wrinkle the collar befo
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