Barcelona glowed like a living painting.
Golden hour poured honey over the narrow streets, catching on the ornate balconies draped with lush ironwork and riotous bursts of geraniums. The sea breeze drifted through the city, warm and salted, stirring the white umbrellas outside the luxurious oceanside restaurant where Marcia Davis sat.
The place was impeccably upscale—white linen tablecloths, gleaming silver cutlery, and the soft, melancholic strains of a Spanish guitar drifting from a nearby performer. Yet none of the surrounding beauty or luxury eased the hard, cold knot in Marcia's stomach.
A warm breeze brushed her toffee-brown hair as she sat at one of the outer tables, the brilliant blue expanse of the Mediterranean stretched behind her in a shimmering, mocking horizon. Her phone screen reflected in her wide brown eyes—eyes she shared with the woman on the screen, a woman who had meticulously engineered her life.
