The restaurant shimmered with the kind of understated opulence that whispered money instead of shouting it. Low amber light glowed from pendant fixtures, glancing off polished cutlery and deep mahogany tables. Conversation hummed in the air, layered with laughter and the faint clinking of wine glasses.
Brianna sat across from Jordan in the back corner of the private dining room, her red dress catching the light like a slow-burning flame. It was deliberate, of course. Every inch of her was composed to perfection, calm, beautiful, unreadable. The only thing that betrayed her was the faint tremor in her hand as she lifted her glass of wine.
Across the table sat a man in his early fifties, round-faced, expensively groomed, his smile too wide to be entirely sincere. Richard Langford, Head of
