The restaurant was called Élévation.
Élévation wasn't just a restaurant. It was a flex. Two Michelin stars, French precision colliding with California excess, the sort of place where the waiting list was measured in seasons and the wine list could bankrupt a small country. On a normal night, you'd have to sell a kidney and your firstborn to get a table.
Tonight? The entire room was dark except for one long imperial table glowing under soft amber light. No influencers, no hedge-fund bros, no Hollywood agents doing coke in the bathroom. Just us. The staff moved like well-trained shadows, appearing only when needed and vanishing the second they weren't.
Because Madison and I didn't just book the place.
We owned the damn deed.
She'd called me at nine that morning, practically vibrating through the phone.
