I stepped into the café, glancing around to find the woman Benjamin had arranged for me to meet. This morning, as he left for work, he had handed me a sleek black card, casually recited the pin—7-8-4-5—and told me to pamper myself and the woman I was meeting. He’d said it so nonchalantly, like it was just another Tuesday.
Benjamin spoke of her with a mixture of admiration and, strangely, a hint of wariness, as though she were a force of nature he deeply respected but dared not cross. There wasn’t even a flicker of romantic undertone when he talked about her. It was more like he revered her, trusted her, and even leaned on her in ways he didn’t lean on many people. That alone piqued my curiosity. I imagined her as someone sharp, charismatic, and unapologetically herself.
I scanned the roo
