The third day in the penthouse felt like living inside Alexander’s heart—a place of ruthless, strategic focus, softened only by the brief, radiant bursts of Clara’s presence. I was firmly planted in the study, my chair pulled close to his massive mahogany desk, reviewing the financial skeleton of Julien Moreau’s offshore dealings.

“He’s sloppy,” I murmured, running a manicured nail across a digital ledger of wire transfers. “He never used the same intermediary twice, but he ...