The flight back to London was mercifully quiet. Viv sat by the window, eyes fixed on the slow drift of clouds, letting the engine's hum drown out the last echoes of the prison—the metallic clanks, the sour smell of bleach, the hollow footsteps on concrete floors. Beside her, Daphne read something on her phone, but Viv could sense the tension radiating off her; weeks of planning, late-night calls, cover stories, and contingency plans had left their mark.

Landing in Heathrow felt like stepping out of a sealed jar. London air was damp and familiar, carrying the faint tang of rain on stone. By the time they reached their quiet street, the city's noise had melted into the steady comfort of home.

The bookstore was just as they'd left it—dust motes floating in soft afternoon light, the faint aroma of paper and old wood greeting them like an old friend. Viv dropped her bag by the counter and simply stood there for a moment, drinking it in.

Then a low, imperious meow cut through the stillness.

"Duke Pudding," Viv breathed, her voice softening in a way it hadn't for months. The sleek black cat padded in from the back, tail high like a banner. Viv crouched, scooping him into her arms in one fluid motion, burying her face in his fur.

Duke purred like a small motor, accepting the affection with the regal satisfaction of a monarch reclaiming tribute. Viv stroked his back over and over, murmuring something only the cat could hear.

Daphne stood nearby, arms crossed, one brow arched. "Three months risking my neck and you greet the cat first," she said, her tone caught somewhere between exasperation and affection.

Viv didn't look up. "He didn't make me fill out seventeen forged forms to get him out of prison."

"Cute," Daphne muttered, but her lips twitched like she might smile. She wandered toward the kitchen, muttering about unpacking and making tea, leaving Viv on the floor with Duke sprawled across her lap like a living velvet blanket.

Across the Atlantic, in a Manhattan high-rise, Lux Donnelly sat curled in a leather chair, ankle resting on her knee, a tumbler of whiskey in her hand. The penthouse windows framed the late-night sprawl of New York—its light-stained skyline, its constant hum.

Her release had come with strings: electronic monitoring, restricted travel, mandatory check-ins. A cage without bars.

But the walls weren't what kept her restless. It was the gnawing curiosity, the sharp itch under her skin whenever she thought of that woman in the prison—the one who'd never flinched, never bent to her games. Alex.

Or rather, "Alexine Vause."

Lux had already hired someone discreet, someone who knew how to dig without leaving fingerprints. The report had been maddeningly vague: Transferred or vanished—location unknown.

She swirled the amber liquid in her glass, watching the way the light caught it. "Vanished," she repeated under her breath, tasting the word like something bitter and sweet at once.

If Alexine Vause was gone, Lux intended to find out where she'd gone. And why the thought of her absence made her feel—though she'd never admit it—like something had been stolen from her.