Marcus Knight doesn't stand when we approach.
He sits with the posture of a man who's spent decades making people come to him. Salt-and-pepper hair. Sharp suit. Eyes that assess value in seconds.
"Adrian." He nods. Then those eyes land on me. "Ms. Bennett."
"Mr. Knight. Thank you for inviting me."
He shakes my hand. Briefly. Cold.
"Sit."
Adrian pulls out my chair. His hand brushes my shoulder—grounding.
Marcus orders for the table without asking. Of course.
"So. Zara Bennett. Interior designer. Brooklyn native. State school graduate." He says it like reading a disappointing resume. "You met at an art gallery."
"The Ashford Gallery. Zaha Hadid retrospective."
"You're interested in architecture?"
"I studied it before interior design."
"State school architecture." He nods slowly.
