The restaurant was the kind of place designed for privacy, dim lights, velvet booths, hushed conversations that dissolved into jazz playing softly in the background. It sat at the top of an upscale mixed-use tower, where the first three floors were all designer shops and luxury cafés, and the rest were sky-high condos with million-peso views.
It was also Mariella’s choice, “neutral territory,” she’d said. But Sari knew what that really meant. No chance of being overheard by the wrong ears.
Sari sat with her back to the window, nursing a glass of red wine while Mariella scrolled through her tablet. The lawyer looked exhausted, hair up in a tight bun, blazer slightly wrinkled, the picture of competence fraying at the edges.
“This is going nowhere,” Mariella said finally, setting the table
