The evening rush at Kitchen 21 was in full swing. The air was thick with the scent of garlic butter steak and the warm, sugary aroma of freshly baked pancakes. The clatter of silverware and the hum of satisfied chatter created a noise that, a few weeks ago, would have been a headache. Now? It sounded like gold coins dropping into a chest.
I sat at the far end of the counter—my usual "Boss" spot—sipping a cup of coffee while reviewing the daily ledger.
"Lucien!"
The door chime jingled, and a familiar silver-haired figure wove through the crowd. Ariana.
She didn't walk with her head down anymore. Her steps were light, almost bouncing, and her eyes—usually hidden behind bangs or darting away in nervousness—were bright and fixed solely on me.
She slid onto the stool beside me, breathless and glowing.
