The next morning arrived wrapped in a soft, slate-grey mist. New York was quieter than usual, as if even the city had paused to breathe. Marco parked outside Caroline's apartment at precisely 7:30 a.m., two steaming coffees resting in the cup holders. He leaned on the horn just once—a soft, friendly beep—and moments later, Caroline emerged from the lobby wearing a cream trench coat and a navy blue scarf wrapped loosely around her neck.
"Right on time," she said, smiling as she slipped into the passenger seat.
"Good morning," Marco handed her a coffee. "Light roast, one pump vanilla, almond milk. Like I said—photographic memory."
Caroline took a sip and let out a satisfied sigh. "You may have just secured yourself lifelong chauffeur status."
"I've been called worse," he chuckled, shifting the car into drive.
