The black SS staff car rolled to a smooth stop in front of Hôtel Raphael, its polished chassis reflecting the grey wash of a cold Paris afternoon. The city, bruised and subdued under occupation, offered no warmth—just silence and stone.

Major Dieter Hellstrom stepped out, every inch of him wrapped in precision: black leather gloves, tailored greatcoat, the iron cross pinned neatly against his uniform. He glanced briefly at the entrance, noting the doorman’s rigid posture, the faint twitch of recognition—or fear. His presence, here of all places, would not go unnoticed. But that wasn’t what troubled him.

She was already waiting.

Standing just beyond the revolving doors, half-shielded by a marble column, she looked exactly as he remembered—though time had weathered something in her posture. Wrapped in a simple navy coat and gloves that didn’t match, she kept her chin high, but her hands fidgeted at her sides. A foreigner trying to appear at ease. An American in occupied Paris. His wife.

He did not greet her.

No words. No gestures. Not even a glance held longer than necessary. He walked past her without pause, murmuring just loud enough for her to hear: “Follow. And do not speak.”

She obeyed.

Inside, the lobby was gilded and hushed, the war held at bay by velvet and oil paintings. But the eyes here were sharper than bullets. Diplomats, officers, collaborators—they noticed everything. And one wrong word, one misplaced smile, could burn everything down.

Hellstrom moved like a shadow, confident but restrained, his expression unreadable. He could feel the weight of her presence behind him, could sense her confusion, her indignation. But she said nothing. She understood.

Not here.

In the elevator, once the doors closed, the silence fractured.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he said, still not facing her.

“I had to,” she replied quietly.

He turned his head, his voice a blade. “You had to? Do you have any idea what it looks like for a man in my position to be seen with an American woman?”

She didn’t flinch. “I didn’t expect a parade.”

“No,” he muttered. “But you expected something.”

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. He waited for her to step out first—never a courtesy, only calculation.

Inside the suite, the curtains were drawn tight, the air stale with disuse. Only when the door clicked shut behind them did he allow himself to remove his gloves, peeling them off finger by finger.

She stood near the fireplace, watching him, searching for something in his face.

He offered nothing.

“You risk more by being here than you know,” he said. “And I can only protect you for so long.”