The air in the villa felt thick enough to cut with a knife. A storm, both literal and figurative, was brewing. The earlier sunshine had vanished, replaced by a heavy, grey sky that mirrored the turmoil raging inside Eleanor. She’d spent the afternoon meticulously organizing the evidence – the suspicious text messages copied onto a notepad, the printout of Leo’s location data from his phone (a skill she’d Googled frantically and executed with trembling hands), the damning photos she’d taken in town. Each piece was a brick in the wall she was building between herself and the man she thought she knew.