The restaurant was obscene in its elegance.
Crystal chandeliers dripped light across white linen and silver, the murmur of wealthy patrons creating a cocoon of privacy that felt suffocating.
Elsa sat between Gideon and his ex-wife, her posture rigid, her smile painted on like armor.
Mark sat across from her — pathetic, red-eyed, his hands trembling around his wine glass.
"Elsa," he started, his voice breaking. "I know I don't deserve—"
"You're right," Gideon interrupted, his tone mild and cutting. "You don't."
He sat to Elsa's left, imposing in a charcoal suit, his posture relaxed as a predator at rest. His right hand rested on the tablecloth, fingers drumming a rhythm that matched Elsa's pounding pulse.
His left hand — hidden beneath the floor-length damask — held a small black r
