|Serena's POV|
The restaurant is one of those places that smells like butter and quiet money. Everything's white tablecloths and art deco light fixtures, the air softly humming with piano jazz and whispered negotiations. It's the kind of place you only come to if your last name means something—or if your first name used to mean something before your heart fell out of your chest and you tried to tape it back together with career milestones.
I fiddle with the corner of the menu while Nikolai orders for us in fluent French, because of course he does. He always had this way of making things feel easy, like the world bent just slightly in his favor, not because he asked it to—but because it liked him.
"You still hate fennel, right?" he asks with a crooked smile, setting the wine list down.
