POV: Evelyn Reeve
The white porcelain plates, once loaded with Miami’s finest fusion cuisine, had been whisked away by the server. My table felt strangely vast now, occupied only by three glasses of fruit juice that glowed like neon signs against the dark wood.
I leaned back, pressing the cold condensation of my orange juice against my palm. It was a rare moment of peace. I pulled my phone from my bag, my thumb aimlessly scrolling through i********:, letting the salt-tinged breeze of South Beach wash over me.
Everything about this bistro was perfect. The rhythm of the city felt distant here.
Then, the air changed.
Maya, sitting directly across from me, suddenly stiffened. Her eyes widened, sparkling with a brand of mischief I’d learned to fear in the short time I’d known her.
She nud
