The plane landed at Charles de Gaulle at six in the morning, Paris time. A gray-blue light filtered through the window, and the runway was slick and dark with rain.

I turned on my phone.

Forty-seven missed calls, all from Julian.

Over a hundred text messages, starting with accusatory questions like 【Where are you?】, escalating to anger 【Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?】, and ending with a desperate plea at 3 AM 【Harper, please, just pick up the phone】.

The last one was sent two hours ago:

【I checked the flights. You’re on your way to Paris, aren’t you? As soon as I handle things at the office, I’ll come find you. We need to talk.】

I didn’t reply. I just deleted the entire conversation thread.

While waiting for my luggage, the TV in the international arrivals hall was playing CNN Business. The anchor’s voice was crisp and clear:

“Thorne Capital shares dropped another 4.7% in after-hours trading, following a Wall Street Journal report that CEO Julian Thorne’s marital crisis could impact the company’s stability. Analysts note that Thorne’s wife, Harper Vance, previously served as the company’s long-term legal counsel, and her departure could expose internal governance risks…”

The screen cut to a photo of Julian—a screenshot from a Bloomberg interview a week ago. He was smiling confidently, the massive trading floor screen of Thorne Capital flowing with red and green numbers behind him.

Now, those numbers were probably all red.

I pulled up the collar of my trench coat and walked towards the exit with my suitcase.

“Harper.”

Someone called my name.

The voice was low, with the soft cadence of French-accented English. I turned.

Liam Carter was leaning against a pillar by the arrival gate. He wore an expensive-looking navy cashmere coat, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone.

I hadn’t seen him in five years. He had a few more fine lines around his eyes, but those gray-green eyes were still as sharp as ever, as if they could see through any legal loophole.

“Liam.” I walked over. “You didn’t have to come yourself.”

“Of course I did.” He took my suitcase, his hand briefly resting on my shoulder—not a hug, more of a protective gesture. “Welcome home, warrior.”

That name made my throat tighten.

For five years in New York, I was “Julian’s wife,” “the Thorne family’s daughter-in-law,” “the elegant hostess of charity galas.”

No one remembered that I was also the best oralist in my law school’s moot court, the one who said at graduation, “The law is not a weapon, it is a shield—but when necessary, I will use it to cut down any injustice.”

“Thank you,” I said softly.

Liam’s car was a discreet black Audi with the clean scent of leather inside.

As we drove away from the airport, the Paris sky began to lighten. The Seine River was a steel-gray ribbon in the dawn light.

“Arthur told me what happened.” Liam drove with one hand, passing me a paper bag with the other. “Croissant and coffee. I figured you didn’t eat the plane food.”

I took it. The bag was warm. “You remembered.”

“I remember all your work habits.” He glanced at me. “Including the double espresso for all-nighters, and…” he paused, “the fact that you avoid eating when you’re stressed.”

I took a bite of the croissant. The flaky pastry shattered between my teeth, releasing a cloud of buttery aroma. He was right. I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch yesterday.

“So,” Liam said, merging onto the A1 highway, his tone turning professional, “what’s the plan? Rest and deal with the jet lag, or head straight to the office? The strategy meeting for the Leclerc Group acquisition is at nine this morning.”

“Office,” I said. “What time is it?”

“Seven-twenty. You can take a shower in my private lounge, change clothes. I had my assistant prepare a full set of toiletries and…” he paused delicately, “a few suits in your size. Based on your old measurements, but they might need adjusting.”

I looked down at myself—a beige trench coat over a cashmere dress and low heels. The typical “Upper East Side wife” uniform. Not suitable for the battleground of Sterling’s Paris office.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” I said.

“I’ve always been thoughtful.” Liam’s voice was quiet. “Five years ago, when you turned down the offer from Sterling, I told you you’d regret it.”

“I don’t regret it,” I said, watching the Parisian suburbs fly by. “Those five years of marriage taught me a lot—about human nature, about power, about how to be systematically undermined in a world dominated by men. I’ll be using those lessons in the courtroom now.”

Liam was silent for a few seconds.

Then he said, “Good. In that case, welcome to the real battlefield, Harper.”