MISTRESS OF THE CITY (CITY SERIES 1)

CHAPTER 8

As I waited for the mayor, who was running about ten minutes late, I decided to pass the time by going through my texts and emails. I didn't mind the delay; I appreciated that she had chosen a secluded spot for our meeting. The room was cool and quiet, a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle outside.

I glanced at my phone and noticed Hiram responded to my text. He was probably curious about the reason for my sudden disappearance from the office. I quickly reassured him that I was fine and told him I would update him on how his lunch date with his ex-wife went. It was the least I could do to ease his mind while I dealt with whatever awaited me in this meeting.

Just as I was about to delve into my emails, the door swung open, and in walked Marlise Darhk. She entered the room with a sense of purpose, holding her handbag and phone, her gaze sharp and unyielding. There were no greetings or apologies for her tardiness; she simply took her seat opposite me with a cool, composed demeanor.

Marlise was a vision of elegance in her maroon-chic suit, paired with a crisp white shirt. Her outfit was impeccably tailored, accentuating her slender frame and exuding an air of authority and sophistication. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, framing her face like a halo, and her makeup was flawlessly applied, enhancing her features without overpowering them.

Despite her stunning appearance, there was an aura of power and control about her that was unmistakable. As she settled into her seat, her eyes locked onto mine with a gaze that seemed to penetrate to my very core, leaving me with no doubt that this meeting was going to be anything but ordinary.

The moment she walked in, her eyes narrowed, her lips a thin line of disapproval. "Of all the women Hiram could have chosen, he picks someone my instincts scream at," she declared, her voice slicing through the air like a knife.

"It's good to see you too," I replied, plastering a smile on my face.

She snorted, her eyes never leaving mine. "Let's cut the bullshit. We're both adults; you aren't thrilled to meet me, and I'm not thrilled to meet you."

"Straight to the point, I see," I said, attempting to keep my tone light.

Her gaze flicked to the empty table between us. "You haven't ordered," she pointed out.

"I heard it's rude to order before your date arrives," I said, gesturing towards her.

Her eyes flashed with anger. "Rude is someone my daughter's age dating my husband."

"Ex-husband," I corrected gently, watching her bristle.

She took a deep breath, her fingers drumming on the table. "Let's eat first, shall we? It's not wise to argue on empty stomachs." The tension eased slightly as the waiter brought our food, a temporary truce formed over steaming plates.

The tension hung in the air like a thick fog, only cut by the soft clinking of glasses and murmur of conversation from the surrounding tables. Then, with the precision of a well-choreographed dance, the waiters glided in, balancing trays of food with the ease of seasoned performers. I hadn't ordered, so curiosity was piqued as they began to set dishes before us.

Marlise noticed my puzzled expression and offered a clipped explanation. "I'm a regular here. They usually bring the chef's specialty of the day."

The first dish was a plate of seared scallops, golden brown and resting on a bed of creamy cauliflower purée, dotted with vibrant green peas and a drizzle of truffle oil. The aroma was intoxicating, a delicate balance of earthiness and sea breeze.

Next came a platter of roasted duck breast, sliced thin and fanned out over a pool of rich cherry reduction, garnished with sprigs of fresh thyme. The skin was crisp, the meat tender and succulent, a promise of decadence in every bite.

A side of wild mushroom risotto followed, the creamy Arborio rice studded with chanterelles, shiitakes, and a sprinkle of Parmesan, its scent warm and comforting, like a hug in a bowl.

As the waiters retreated, leaving us with the culinary treasures, Marlise's eyes met mine, her gaze unwavering and still filled with that edge of hostility. "Shall we?" she said, her voice a shade softer but no less firm.

I picked up my fork, mirroring her actions. "Yes, let's."

We began to eat, the flavors mingling on our tongues in a symphony of tastes. The scallops melted in my mouth, the duck was an indulgent harmony of sweet and savory, and the risotto a creamy, earthy delight. Yet, despite the exquisite food, an undercurrent of tension persisted.

Between bites, Marlise's eyes bore into me, a silent scrutiny. She wasn't happy to be there, that much was clear. But beneath the resentment, there was something else—perhaps a hint of curiosity, or maybe it was just the flickering candlelight playing tricks.

"So," she began, her tone still edged but slightly more measured. "What do you see in him?"

I took a moment, savoring the flavor and the gravity of her question. "He's kind," I said, meeting her gaze. "And he listens."

Her fork paused mid-air, a flash of something—recognition, maybe—crossing her face. She resumed eating.

The meal continued, the initial hostility slowly ebbing away with each delicious bite. By the time dessert arrived—a delicate lemon tart with a dollop of mascarpone and a scattering of fresh berries—the atmosphere had shifted. We weren't friends, and we would not be soon.

"Marlise’s fork hovered above her plate, her eyes narrowing slightly as if processing a difficult concept. "Hiram and listening in one sentence are words I never thought I'd hear," she said, each syllable dripping with disbelief.

I met her gaze, my expression calm. "People change," I replied, watching as the skepticism flickered across her face, momentarily breaking the mask of contempt she wore so effortlessly.

Marlise set down her fork, her fingers curling around her wine glass as she leaned back. Her eyes were sharp, and her voice held a bitter edge. "Do you know why we divorced?" she asked, the question heavy with unspoken history.

"I have a feeling you’re about to tell me," I replied, keeping my tone neutral.

"He was married to his work," she said, her words laced with venom. "Barely at home. Always away, always busy."

I glanced around the opulent restaurant, then back at her, noting the designer dress, and the diamonds glittering in her ears. "From what I see, you benefited from his hard work too," I said, gesturing subtly to her attire and surroundings.

A cold smile touched her lips. "You’re right. I did benefit. But I also sacrificed those years by his side." She leaned forward, her eyes burning with intensity. "But not for someone like you to come and enjoy what I sacrificed for."

I held her gaze steadily. "From what I've gathered, you’re the one who asked and filed for divorce," I said, my voice calm but firm. Her face tightened, a storm of emotions flashing briefly before she masked them again with a composed exterior.

I leaned back, studying her carefully. "You wanted the freedom to do what you wanted. You're the mayor now, so I don't understand why I'm the bad guy here," I said, my voice even.

A flicker of something—satisfaction, perhaps—crossed her face, but it was quickly replaced by a steely resolve. "I'll play along until you leave," she said, her tone icy. "This city has one queen. It doesn't need another, let alone a mistress." Her words hung in the air, a veiled threat that I mentally filed away for future consideration.

"Thank you for the delicious lunch. I have to get to work," I said, standing and gathering my things. I met her gaze one last time, ignoring the implicit menace in her statement, then turned and walked away, leaving her with the final word she clearly craved but didn't receive.