Lila’s POV
That evening, in a private members’ lounge overlooking the city, Lila Vancrest stirred her espresso without drinking it.
The club gleamed with gold and quiet jazz, built for old money and discreet deals. Men ruined companies here over whiskey and signed fortunes between desserts.
I preferred places like this, no witnesses, no accountability.
Across from me, Mr. Davenport loosened his tie, irritation barely masked beneath corporate polish. He looked drained from the emergency forensic inquiry Ethan had triggered earlier that week.
Good, pressure made men careless, and careless men are quite useful.
“I assume you called me here because of the forensic inquiry,” Davenport said dryly, signaling the waiter for another whiskey. “Though I’d prefer if we never met in public again.
