"Ready, ma'am?" Gregory was waiting by the front door, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"Ready," I said, gripping my purse tight.
The market was a cacophony of sound—the shouting of vendors, the rustle of paper bags, and the dense, moving wall of people. It was perfect.
Gregory trailed three paces behind me, his eyes scanning the perimeter like a hawk. He carried the heavy wicker basket, his presence a constant, looming reminder of my cage. I moved from the fishmonger to the spice stall, playing the part of the meticulous chef, picking up bundles of herbs and smelling them with practiced interest.
"I need to find a specific type of artisanal olive oil," I told Gregory, pointing toward a cramped, narrow aisle filled with towering shelves of glass bottles. "It’s at the very back. It
