The candlelight flickered against the polished crystal, gilding Nicholas Wolfe’s features in warm gold and shadow. The restaurant had the kind of elegance that whispered money—white linens pressed to perfection, silverware aligned as though rulers had measured them, and waiters who moved like ghosts, anticipating needs before they were spoken. Around them, the murmur of other patrons was a soft backdrop, but for Clara, it all faded into insignificance. The only sound that mattered was the measured, deliberate cadence of the man seated across from her.
Her hands remained clasped tightly in her lap, her fingers entwined so hard the joints ached, but she didn’t loosen them. The tension kept her anchored, kept her from unraveling in the face of his steady gaze. Nicholas swirled his untouched
