Los Angeles shimmered under an indifferent sun — all glare and glamour, a city made of reflections pretending to be light.
Even the air felt deliberate — perfumed with ambition, warmed by vanity.
Willow stepped out of the car beside Victor, the dry wind teasing her hair into motion. The skyline stretched forever — glass blades cutting into the horizon, the promise of everything and the guarantee of nothing.
Victor placed a hand at the small of her back, steering her toward a brushed steel doorway without signage. The entrance was discreet — no logo, no greeters — just a woman in black who smiled as if she'd been waiting for them since morning.
"Mr. Soren," she said smoothly, inclining her head. "Your table is ready."
Inside, the air shifted from asphalt and noise to stillness and cool elegance.
