ELENA’S POV
The restaurant was one of those places that felt like it existed in a different world—sleek, polished, with dim golden lighting that made everything glow softly. The hum of quiet jazz wrapped around us like a warm blanket, and the air smelled faintly of rosemary and something sweet.
London held the door open for me, his hand brushing the small of my back as we stepped inside. It was such a small gesture, but it sent a shiver through me—one I tried to ignore.
“Welcome, Mr. Evans. Your table is this way,” a waiter said as he approached us. Of course, London had made a reservation. He always did things like this—thoughtful, deliberate. He was the kind of man who remembered the details.
We were led to a corner table, secluded but not isolated—the kind of spot where you
