The drive back takes place in a silence that no longer feels hostile. It's not the icy silence of the first days, when every kilometre seemed to dig a trench between us. It's something else: a charged silence, almost intimate, as if superfluous words had become unnecessary. Cameron is driving himself tonight no Alfred, no separating window, no barrier. Just him at the wheel of the black Mercedes, his hands resting confidently on the leather steering wheel, and me beside him, legs crossed, the black dress having ridden up slightly on my thighs because of the seated position. The rain has started again, light but persistent, and the wipers beat a regular, almost hypnotic rhythm.I watch the streets of Mayfair scroll by through the tinted window. The lampposts cast golden reflections on the wet asphalt, the luxury shop windows are already dark, but their illuminated signs continue to blink like nocturnal promises. The cabin is warm, the smell of new leather mixed with his cologne cedarw
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