Isabella's text arrived at nine AM on Friday: Still on for today? The place I have in mind has a waitlist, but I know the manager.
Ethan had been awake since six, running through scenarios for tonight's meeting with Castellano, his notes spread across his desk like a general's battle maps. He read the text, set it aside, finished his current thought about Castellano's Delaware holding structure, and then picked it back up.
ETHAN: Send me the address. Two o'clock?
ISABELLA WINTERS: One-thirty. Some of us have actual afternoon plans.
The cafe was in SoHo, tucked between a concept store selling thousand-dollar sneakers and a gallery showing abstract work at prices that required a private consultation. The kind of block where the coffee cost sixteen dollars and no one blinked.
Ethan arriv
