Richard stood just inside the entrance of the restaurant, as composed as ever, his suit tailored to perfection, every gesture efficient and unreadable. The hostess blinked like someone had slapped her.
“King...?” she stammered.
The woman at his side didn’t even acknowledge the hostess—just slipped her arm through his, her laugh low and practiced. She leaned in close and whispered something that made Richard’s mouth twitch into a faint smile, the kind that felt private and polished.
He looked in my direction—just for a second—but it was long enough to know he’d seen me. His eyes landed on mine and slid past like I was nothing more than furniture. No recognition. No tension. No hesitation. Just the blank, practiced gaze of someone who had no intention of making a scene.
Then he turned ba
