The noise outside the studio was deafening. A wall of paparazzi screamed William’s name as the limousine pulled up to the curb.
Inside the car, William took a deep breath. He reached into his jacket pocket to check for the ring. His fingers brushed against the folded piece of paper–Sophie’s letter.
He frowned, feeling the paper. He started to pull it out.
*Buzz.*
His phone lit up on the seat between them. *Marcus Thorne – Incoming Call.*
“Marcus,” William sighed, glancing at the screen. “He’s probably calling to tell me about another ghost in Italy. I can’t deal with his delusions tonight.”
He declined the call and shoved the phone back into his pocket, pushing Sophie’s letter deep down into the lining of his jacket in the process. He never looked at it.
“Ready?” William asked, turning to Sophie.
Sophie looked at him, pale and trembling. She realized he hadn’t read it. She was walking into the execution chamber without a shield.
“Ready,” she lied.
William opened the door, and they stepped out onto the red carpet, hand in hand, walking straight into the blinding lights of the trap.