Rhysand.
The café Crysta picked sits on a quiet corner of the city, outdoor tables shaded by wide umbrellas that ripple in the late-afternoon breeze of the next day. I choose a table near the edge of the exit and wait.
Crysta arrives ten minutes late, sauntering up in a tight sundress that clings in all the wrong ways for a “casual” meetup, her makeup heavy even in the daylight. She slides into the chair opposite me with a smile that’s all teeth, ordering a mimosa before I can even suggest coffee.
Now she’s stirring the drink lazily, her eyes roaming over me like I’m on the menu.
“You know, Rhysand,” she says, leaning forward so her cleavage strains against the fabric, “I’ve met a lot of men in my life. Powerful ones. Rich ones. But you… you’ve got that edge. Like you could break somet
