Maeve’s version of lunch looked like a hostage negotiation staged inside a Michelin-starred warzone. The kind of place with napkins that felt like pressed silk and a chandelier shaped like a jellyfish having a meltdown. She told me to meet her at Le Démentiel at seven sharp and to wear something that said “I’m not scared of hell.” I wore a black dress that probably used to belong to a braver woman and earrings Jynelle described as “sharp enough to stab a billionaire’s ego.” I didn’t ask how she knew. The second I stepped inside, Maeve was already halfway through a glass of something disturbingly green and swirling it like she was waiting for a séance.
“Darling,” she said, dramatically removing her sunglasses even though it was dark outside and we were indoors. “You look like heartbreak di
