“Mr. Dawson, we’ve arrived,” is how I’m woken up by one of the flight attendants. I look outside to see a small airport, similar to the one I departed from. I follow my single companion off the private jet.

The temperature outside is similar to the climate I just left, and I’m comfortable in my shorts and t-shirt. He leads me over to a black SUV and opens the door before rounding the fender and climbing into the front passenger seat. I get in and toss my bag on the seat next to me before pulling the door shut. The driver glances back, and I’m surprised to realize I recognize him.

“You’re Thomas, right?” I ask, almost certain he was one of Vivienne’s agents at Lincoln.

The driver smiles. “Yes, I am. It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Dawson.”

We pull away from the airstrip, and I look out the window at the scenery of Vivienne’s home country. It’s gorgeous. There’s no way to deny that. The greenery is lush, and the scenery is dotted by open-air villas surrounded by tall, thin trees. Turquoise water suddenly appears to the right, and I look to the left to see a series of white-washed cottages rising out of the cliff that overlooks the sparkling sea.

The countryside eventually gives way to more concentrated neighborhoods and then we drive past a series of stores, restaurants, coffee shops, churches, and museums. Every place we pass is packed with people.

The buildings abruptly stop as we drive up a slight incline. Massive wrought-iron gates rise before us, melded into a metal fence that runs out to the left and right as far as I can see. Crowds of people mill about on the stone sidewalk that stretches on either side of the road.

A severe-looking man steps out of a booth to the left, and Thomas hands him a badge. The man returns to the booth and the gate opens. We drive through and roll along a tree-lined drive toward the imposing stone facade of a building up ahead. We round a massive fountain before Thomas drives underneath an overhang that sits in the very center of the building, supported by elaborately carved columns on either side.

“Where are we?” I ask, although I’m fairly certain I already know.

“The palace,” Thomas replies.

“What are we doing here? I thought I’d be staying at a hotel or something?”

“I was told to bring you here. I’ve got to park the car, but feel free to head right inside. Someone will be waiting to greet you.”

I grab my luggage and climb out of the car, glancing around at my surroundings with awe. The grass and landscaping are immaculate and the alabaster stone that comprises the outside of the opulent building in front of me gleams in the sunlight.

Thomas pulls the car away as I walk up to the ornate doors, wondering if I should knock. I’m saved from deciding when a middle-aged man opens the door.