Three days later, Vivian sat across from Dominique Laurent in a quiet café in the West Village.
The café was the kind of place she never would have found on her own—tucked away on a side street, no signage, known only to locals and people who valued privacy. The interior was warm and intimate, all exposed brick and soft lighting, with tables spaced far enough apart that conversations couldn’t be overheard.
Dominique had chosen it, which made sense. A woman in her position would need places where she could talk freely without worrying about who might be listening.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” Vivian said after they’d ordered—tea for Dominique, coffee for Vivian.
“Alexander asked me to. But I would have reached out even if he hadn’t.” Dominique stirred honey into her tea, the small s
