The private dining room on the top floor smells of fir and cedar the moment the door opens.
Dark pine panels line every wall, each piece of wood with its own grain pattern. The whole room is warm and close in a way that feels intentional rather than accidental. A crystal chandelier throws fractured light across the ceiling.
The table is set with white silk and cutlery that is clearly custom—small engravings on every handle, the kind of craftsmanship that doesn't announce itself.
Mia sits and looks at the knife in front of her for a moment. Then she looks at the room. Then, she says very quietly, "This is extraordinary."
"My mother loves art," Elias says with mild resignation. "My father supports everything she loves. This is the result."
He glances at the waiter. "Let's order."
They
