The Eleventh Hour in Timog was quiet at this hour, low lighting, mahogany warmth, the kind of place where secrets could sit at the table without needing a reservation. A server led Mariella through a narrow hallway lined with photos of celebrities who liked to pretend they dined here voluntarily. The door slid open into a private booth.
Jordan Saavedra was already there.
He didn’t look up at first, absorbed in notes scattered across the table. The glow from his laptop carved light along the sharp lines of his face. When he finally lifted his gaze, it was like staring into a contained storm.
Tall. Dark. Handsome in that devastatingly inconvenient way.Jordan Saavedra was every news anchor cliché and then some.
The son of the Saavedra family of the north, old money, land, tobacco, rice, b
