Chapter 5

The brunch crowd was dying down, the frantic energy of the Sunday morning rush replaced by a lazy, honeyed hum. We had managed to secure a semi-private corner booth near the railing, far enough from the main dining floor that the chatter of strangers felt like distant static, close enough to the mimosa bar that we could linger without committing to a full hour. I had already finished my second glass of champagne, the bubbles rising in my stomach like warm light, making my skin feel loose and pliable. The jazz trio in the corner was playing a slow, smoky rendition of a standard, the saxophone weaving through the air like a lover’s sigh. But I wasn’t listening to the music. I was listening to *him*. He had been watching me all morning, that dark, heavy gaze tracking my movements with a predatory patience that made my knees weak every time I caught it. He hadn’t said much, just sipped his espresso, watched me pick at the eggs benedict, and let the tension between us coil tighter and tighter with every passing minute. It was a silent conversation, a negotiation of power and desire that had started in the elevator