The alarm clock did not sound like the one in the villa. In Amalfi, the morning was announced by sunlight and birds. In London, it was a digital beep, sharp and demanding, cutting through the heavy silence of the master bedroom. I reached out and silenced it before the second chirp. The room was gray, the heavy curtains blocking out the dawn. For a moment, I lay there, disoriented, expecting to hear the sea crashing against the cliffs. Instead, I heard the hum of the city traffic filtering through the double-glazed windows. A bus braking. A siren in the distance. The sound of home.
Marcus was already awake. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, tying his tie. He looked different in the London light. In the villa, he had worn linen and shorts. Here, he was in a charcoal suit, the armor of
