The restaurant sat above the riverfront, its floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting gold light across polished walnut floors and dark leather booths. Below, the water moved steadily through the city while traffic crawled along the opposite bank. Inside, servers carried trays between tables occupied by executives ending their workweeks, couples lingering over dessert, and donors who treated reservations as social currency.
After another week of renovations and structural recovery, Friday evening had arrived exactly as planned.
No emergencies. No unexpected meetings. No one trying to save the world.
Galathea Brooks considered that suspicious.
Across from her, Cael Alexander was reviewing a seating chart on his phone while pretending he wasn't.
"You promised tonight wasn't work," Galathea watched the enthusiastic expression of her fiancé. An expression most people wouldn't be able to distinguish from his stoic default.
