As Emma stared out the glass wall beside her, her fingers gently traced the rim of her water glass. She wasn't thinking about the food. Or the menu. She was just trying to understand how she had ended up in a place like this, sitting across from Zane like everything was normal.
Zane didn't speak either. He just leaned back, calm as always, like he belonged in that chair, in that suit, in this very room.
The whispers hadn't stopped.
A couple across the room kept glancing their way, eyes narrowed slightly, lips moving behind wine glasses. At a far table, a man in a deep navy suit tapped his fork lightly against his plate, his eyes locked on them.
And then, at the center of the room, a tall man with slicked-back hair and a sharp jawline set his glass down with a slight clink. His name was Jordan Blake—one of the restaurant's most regular VIPs. Wealthy. Entitled. Proud.
He leaned to the side and motioned to the head waiter with a subtle wave of two fingers.
The waiter leaned close.
