Belvare had promised intrigue. Hidden alleys, old money, dangerous glamour. Chris had arrived fully prepared to be impressed.
Instead, he kept accidentally walking into crime.
The first time, it had been a "heritage wine cellar tour" tucked under a beautifully restored waterfront building, complete with soft lighting, classical music, and a guide who spoke a little too smoothly about "private investors." Ten minutes in, Chris had noticed the mismatched invoices, the security doors that didn't belong in a historical monument, and the way the "tasting room" cameras were angled to watch the staff, not the guests. He had smiled politely, finished his glass, and walked out straight into Dax's security detail, who had already been pinged by the king's amused voice in their earpieces.
