The knock on the door ca just as Liam was stretching lazily on the bed.
"Room service," a polite voice called.
He rose and walked to the living room where he was greeted by a staff mber in a sharp uniform pushing in a polished cart draped with white linen. The aroma from the items on the cart filled his nose imdiately.
The staff mber laid everything out carefully on the low dining table by the window before bowing slightly and retreating.
"rci, monsieur," Liam replied softly, fluently and flawlessly, with his World-Class Etiquette skill making his tone carry just the right balance of courtesy and warmth.
Once the door shut, he sat down before the spread.
There was nothing overly elaborate about the al—just a plate of eggs benedict, a side of rösti potatoes crisped to golden perfection, smoked trout with a slice of lemon, a small basket of croissants, and a carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice.
But to Liam, it wasn’t "just breakfast."
The mont his fork sliced into the poached egg, releasing its golden yolk onto the buttery hollandaise sauce, his Culinary Arts skill went to work unbidden. He didn’t an to analyze, but the layers of taste unfolded automatically in his mind.
The eggs were free-range, boiled for exactly four minutes thirty seconds, cooled in a bath to preserve their texture. The hollandaise had the faint sharpness of tarragon, a whisper of white wine vinegar. The rösti was grated with the right balance between coarse and fine shreds, pan-fried in clarified butter until crisp without being greasy. Even the croissants—he could almost see the countless folds of butter and dough layered into the pastry.
His enhanced senses made every flavor richer, every aroma sharper, every texture clearer. It was as though the al played a symphony only he could fully hear.
But instead of overwhelming him, he allowed himself to enjoy it and he didn’t eat quickly or absentmindedly. He savored every bite, smiling faintly as he leaned back and sipped his orange juice.
"Not bad," he murmured to himself. "Not bad at all."
Once he was done, Liam pushed the cart aside and rose from the table. He smoothed down his shirt and walked toward the suite’s front door.
As expected, Mason and Nick were already waiting in the hallway. Both n straightened slightly the mont the door opened.
Mason gave a respectful nod when he saw him.
"Is the car ready?" Liam smiled and asked.
"Yes, sir," Nick answered. "It’s waiting in the garage."
"Good. Let’s go."
The three of them moved together down the corridor, their steps muffled on the thick carpet.
The exclusive elevator was already waiting by the ti they reached it, whisking them smoothly down past the lobby and into the private garage where a Maybach S-Class was parked.
The three of them got into the car and after they were comfortable, Nick started the car.
The car purred to life, pulling out of the garage and onto Geneva’s pristine streets.
"Take us to the lakeside," Liam instructed casually.
"Yes, sir," Nick replied, guiding the car toward the heart of the city.
The drive was smooth, almost soothing. Geneva passed by in fras of elegance: neatly aligned townhouses with painted shutters, boutiques with glittering window displays, narrow streets where cyclists glided past unhurriedly.
A few minutes later, Lake Geneva appeared in the distance, its vast surface glittering under the morning sun. Nick guided the car along the waterfront until Liam raised his hand.
"Here’s fine. Stop."
Nick eased the car toward a discreet corner, parking neatly. Mason stepped out instantly and opened Liam’s door.
The mont Liam’s shoes touched the ground, he inhaled deeply.
Cool, fresh air filled his lungs, carrying with it the faint briny scent of the lake and the subtle sweetness of blooming flowers from the nearby parks. His lips curved into a genuine smile.
"This... this feels good."
He stepped away from the Maybach, his hands sliding casually into his pockets as he began strolling along the lakeside path.
Mason followed behind, close enough to intervene if needed but far enough not to intrude. Nick remained with the car, his eyes scanning the surroundings like a hawk.
The lakeside was alive with morning energy. Joggers passed in steady rhythm, their shoes thudding softly against the pavent. Couples strolled hand-in-hand. Children laughed as they fed bread crumbs to swans gliding gracefully across the lake’s surface.
Tourists clustered by the railing, taking photos of the famous Jet d’Eau. Its towering spray rose high into the air, scattering droplets that sparkled like diamonds under the sun.
Liam walked slowly, deliberately, letting himself soak in the view. His senses caught everything—the crisp rustle of leaves in the breeze, the chatter of French, German, and Italian mixing in the air, the faint warmth of sunlight against his skin.
He felt... alive.
"Fuuu..." He let out a soft sigh, his breath mingling with the air.
He continued walking for hours, losing track of ti as the lake carried him along its edge. His mind wandered, sotis to the system, sotis to his plans, and sotis to nothing at all.
By the ti he finally slowed, the sun was past its zenith, casting the lake in brighter shades of silver. His body wasn’t tired—not with his enhanced stamina—but he decided it was ti to rest.
Scanning the street, he spotted a café. Its small patio was lined with tables shaded by cream-colored umbrellas.
Liam’s smile returned.
"Perfect."
He crossed the street with Mason shadowing him discreetly, and walked to the café. The bell above the café door chid as he stepped inside.
The aroma filled his nose imdiately. Freshly ground coffee, warm pastries, faint hints of chocolate and vanilla. Inside, the décor was simple but elegant: wooden beams, chalkboard nus, and shelves stacked with jars of roasted beans.
Conversations flowed softly around him, a mix of locals and tourists sipping their drinks, tapping on laptops, or leafing through newspapers.
For Liam, it was a welco change of pace.
He picked a corner seat by the window, allowing him a perfect view of both the lake and the café’s interior, and made his order.
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