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Finn Wright stood by the narrow window of his rented cottage in Great Amwell, taking in the gentle signs that winter was finally loosening its grip. Tiny buds peeked through the ground; a delicate haze of green softened the distant hedgerows. He’d never imagined himself dwelling in the English countryside—especially not after the controversies he’d left behind in the United States—but here he was. And, to his surprise, he found himself enjoying the slow rhythms of rural life, at least when circumstances allowed.

This morning, he was determined to make breakfast for Amelia Winters, the brilliant English inspector who had become both his partner in investigation and, more recently, his partner in something far deeper. Standing at the kitchen counter, he whisked eggs in a ceramic bowl. The cottage kitchen was modest, with light-blue cabinets, an old-fashioned kettle perched on the stovetop, and a small wooden table that could barely seat four. It was far from the glossy open-concept kitchens he recalled from certain upscale American homes, but it felt right—cozy, comforting, and, for once, free from looming danger.

Finn, in his thirties, had light-blond hair that could never decide between neatness and disarray. He habitually brushed it back, only for it to spring forward when he focused on something else. Muscular and tall, people often mistook him for Scandinavian, and he often wore jeans and plain t-shirts these days—although in another life, he might have been spotted in FBI windbreakers or sharp suits. A faint scar along his left jaw served as a souvenir from one of his more harrowing cases back in the States. Though his posture remained upright and vigilant—habits formed through years of law enforcement—there was something different in his face now: less tension, less guilt. He felt, for the first time in years, that the baggage from his past was no longer crushing him.

He added chopped onions and peppers to a sizzling pan, savoring the satisfying hiss. This was a new routine for him: quiet mornings, a gentle sunrise, no immediate case calls—though he suspected such peace was always temporary. After a tumultuous period that involved hunting a dangerous criminal named Max Vilne across international lines, he had hoped for a sustained lull. Indeed, the lull had come for months. Yes, there had been other cases, other investigations, but nothing so dramatic. Finn yearned for a larger mystery to sink his teeth into.

He cracked a couple more eggs into the bowl, whisking them with practiced efficiency. The smell of browning vegetables filled the space, mingling with the faint tang of British tea—an art he was still learning to perfect. Meanwhile, outside the window, the sunlight grew stronger, giving the garden an almost golden hue. He poured the eggs into the pan, stirring them gently before letting the mixture settle into an omelet.

As the eggs firmed, Finn allowed himself a quick look around the kitchen. On the countertop lay a small pile of postcards and letters he hadn’t sorted yet. Many bore stamps from the United States—old friends, colleagues, or perhaps the occasional overdue bureaucratic notice from his days at the FBI. He sighed, turning his attention back to breakfast. His FBI past was a complicated tapestry of achievements, regrets, and controversies. He’d been embroiled in a scandal involving a hotel hostage rescue that ended in spectacular property damage. Eventually, his innocence and heroism were recognized, but the scrutiny had driven him from the States. Amelia liked to tease him about how “accidents” seemed to follow him, but he knew her jokes were laced with admiration. After all, it was that unwavering sense of responsibility that first led him to track down criminals like Vilne—people who would harm innocents if left unchecked.

After flipping the omelet onto a warm plate and adding a couple of lightly buttered toast slices, he arranged everything on a tray: the omelet, toast, a steaming mug of tea, and a small vase holding a single daffodil. Spring was arriving, after all—why not celebrate it in small ways? He lifted the tray and headed into the hallway.

The hallway mirror caught his eye, reflecting a slim man with a careful balance to his steps—always mindful, always ready for the unexpected. Finn paused, tray in hand, observing himself: the stress lines around his eyes seemed less pronounced, his posture more relaxed. For most of his adult life, he’d worn a perpetual worry on his face—a guardedness from witnessing too many horrors in both FBI operations and cross-border pursuits. Now, there was a quiet contentment in the mirror that almost startled him. A grin pulled at his lips, and he gave a small, awkward chuckle. Happiness, he thought, is a strange feeling to wear after so long in the shadows.

Carrying the tray upstairs, he stepped carefully on each creaking floorboard. The cottage was old, charming in its imperfections, and big enough for two. It belonged to his friend Rob's aunt, who was now happy to allow him to stay indefinitely, as long as he paid a decent rent. In recent months, it had become a sort of retreat for him and Amelia, a place to catch their breath after dealing with the kinds of criminals who left a trail of blood across cities and continents. He walked down the short landing toward the bedroom at the far end. The door was slightly ajar, letting in a shaft of morning light.

Inside, Amelia lay curled under the duvet. She was in her early thirties, an English inspector with the Metropolitan Police—sharp-minded and level-headed even under the direst of circumstances. Though her hair was a deep russet color, at this moment, it fanned across the pillow in a messy tangle. Her skin held a slight natural freckling, usually subdued by professional attire and the hustle of investigative life. In slumber, her expression was unguarded, the burden of countless cases erased for a few precious hours.

Finn stood at the threshold, simply watching her for a moment. Amelia had endured her own tragedies: the death of her fiance, Mark, years prior had initially left her wary about deep connections. Yet somehow, across near-death encounters and frantic pursuits, she and Finn had found each other. The synergy of their detective work had forged a bond that eventually transcended professional respect, evolving into companionship—and love. Seeing her now, asleep and safe, he felt an acute warmth in his chest.

A muffled snore emanated from her. He bit back a laugh. Amelia was adamant she never snored, but here was the evidence, plain as day. Gently, he laid the tray on the small dresser by the door. Then he stepped over to the bed and touched her shoulder. She only burrowed deeper into the duvet, her breath a soft rumble.

“Amelia?” he whispered. No response. Leaning closer, he tried, “Rise and shine.”

Still nothing. He stifled a grin. “Fine,” he muttered, “you leave me no choice.” Raising his voice to a crisp, urgent tone, he called, “Max Vilne is here!”

She jerked upright instantly, eyes wide with alarm, scanning the room as though expecting an assailant to leap out from the wardrobe. “Where?” she demanded, her voice raspy from sleep.

Finn let out a mischievous chuckle. “Relax. He’s still very dead.”

Amelia blinked several times, gathering that it was a false alarm, then glared at him. “Very funny.” She slumped back against the pillows, one hand over her rapidly beating heart. “If I suffer a stress-induced stroke, I’ll blame you entirely.”

He raised his palms in surrender, though his grin remained. “Couldn’t help it,” he said. “But for the record, you were snoring.”

Amelia pushed a messy strand of hair away from her face, her cheeks tinged with the slightest pink. “I do not snore.”

“If you’d like, I can record the sound next time.” Finn teased, stepping around the bed to retrieve the breakfast tray.

She fixed him with a halfhearted glower. “Don’t you dare?"

In response, Finn laid the tray across her lap. “I present: your breakfast, milady. An omelet—over-seasoned, probably, but made with love. Toast, tea, and an early daffodil I found in the garden.”

Amelia’s expression softened. “You’re spoiling me,” she murmured. She stabbed the omelet with a fork, took a bite, and gave him a nod of approval. “Lovely,” she whispered, then sipped the tea. “And the tea’s surprisingly good. You’re improving.”

He shrugged, feigning casualness. “I had a good teacher. Or maybe it’s just that the bar was set low after my first attempts.”

Setting the tea aside, Amelia pulled Finn closer by his wrist. He leaned in, and they met in a soft, unhurried kiss that left a pleasant fizz in the air. In that moment, the entire world seemed to shrink to just the two of them, content in their shared warmth. But before they could indulge further, Amelia’s phone rang, its digital chime abruptly piercing the room’s tranquility.

She eyed the screen and sighed. “It’s Rob.”

Finn took the phone from her hand with mock indignation. “He’s probably phoning to ask if we’ve run off to some secluded island,” he joked, pressing the answer button. “Rob, you do realize you’re interrupting a rather excellent omelet situation? I'm thinking of getting one of those Michelin stars.”

From the speaker, they heard the familiar timbre of Chief Rob Collins, the senior figure who oversaw many of their investigative efforts, and the old friend of Finn's from their college days. “Oh, pardon me, your highness,” Rob said with exaggerated politeness, but Finn could sense there was an urgency to cut to the chase. “The Home Office has specifically requested you two on a new case.”

“Here we go again,” Finn murmured, pressing the speaker button so Amelia could listen, and assuming the call would be another run of the mill case. “Alright, Rob, what’s so urgent that you must break up a perfect morning?”

Rob’s voice crackled through. “This is of the highest priority. A man named Sir Richard Doyle was found murdered last night in London. He’s a big deal, from what I gather. Old friend of the royal family, and knighted for his business accomplishments. We’re talking someone who has brushed shoulders with some of the most powerful people around the world. His death will attract major attention. The murder happened at a fancy gentleman's club, The Monarch. The Home Office wants the best on it, so they surprisingly asked for us. You in?”

Amelia caught Finn’s eye. She nodded, her expression shifting from cozy contentment to calm professional readiness. “We’re in, Chief. Where do we start?”

“Head over to The Monarch Club. You’ll get more details on-site—locals are holding the scene for you. Body’s still at the scene, so the club’s been temporarily closed to members. You can be there in two hours, right?”

“Two hours,” Amelia confirmed. “We’ll leave as soon as possible.”

Finn chimed in, “Just be aware, Rob, that you owe me for interrupting an unparalleled culinary masterpiece.”

Rob’s laugh rumbled through the phone. “I’ll make it up to you, mate. Safe travels. And hurry—it’s not every day a man with ties to the royals ends up dead in a posh club. I'll meet you there.”

The call disconnected, leaving the room in a hush. Amelia angled the phone away. She stared at the half-eaten breakfast, then at Finn. “I guess it’s time for us to be the unstoppable duo again.”

He nodded, a current of excitement mingling with regret for losing the leisurely morning they’d planned. “Don't let Rob hear you say that, it would hurt his feelings.”

He placed the tray on the dresser, stepping aside to let her swing her legs out of bed. At the same time, she grabbed a green T-shirt—a comfortable old one of Finn’s—from a chair and tossed it at him. “Shower’s all yours first,” she announced, a sly grin forming. “Don’t take forever. If we’re going to stand in front of The Monarch’s members, we should at least look somewhat awake and respectable.”

Grinning, Finn held the T-shirt against his chest. “I will do my best not to monopolize the hot water, Miss Winters.”

“Inspector Winters, to you,” she teased, though her eyes sparkled with warmth. Then her tone softened, and she pressed a hand briefly to his cheek.

Outside, the emerging spring light gilded the cottage windows, and Finn finally felt ready to dive into a new case.