Xavier’s knuckles whitened against his booster seat. “Mummy—is that father motorcade?” 

“Unlikely.” I snapped my compact shut, though the aftershave notes cutting through the Bentley’s recycled air—vetiver and crushed ice—were unmistakably Rafayel’s. “Your father considers Range Rovers frightfully nouveau riche.”  

Raymond’s eyes locked onto the rearview. Without preamble, he wrenched the wheel left, the Bentley’s tyres screeching across Belgravia’s cobbles as he gunned the twin-turbo V8. 

“Madam. Seatbelts.” 

I blinked, lipstick hovering mid-application. “Really, Raymond—must you overreact to every—”  

“LOOK!” Xavier craned his neck as the lead Rover swerved into our lane, its tinted windows reflecting the panicked flutter of my lashes.  

“Young Master,” Raymond barked, veering down a service...