They didn’t book some cold hotel conference room for their first official meeting. Instead, they took over Marisol’s converted loft downtown, high ceilings, old brick walls, windows that let the late spring sun pour through like liquid gold.
Celeste stood at the edge of the makeshift “war room”: a giant reclaimed wood table covered in legal pads, laptops, empty coffee cups. Damien, for once, wasn’t wearing his armor of suit and tie. He’d rolled his sleeves up, top buttons undone, leaning back in a battered chair that looked out of place under the skylight.
Aisha had her hair piled high and was tapping at her phone between scribbles on a whiteboard. Quinn sat cross-legged on the floor with a legal pad, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown. Marisol paced, barefoot, balancing a cup o
