The candlelight wavered softly, like molten gold across the white linen tablecloth and painting restless shadows that danced like echoes of Eliana Bennett's heart. In the secluded alcove of Le Jardin Secret, every detail seemed calculated to deceive the senses — the delicate perfume of jasmine drifting from fresh blooms, the calming whisper of chamomile rising from fine porcelain, the faint hum of polite conversation and clinking glass beyond the frosted glass partition.
But here, inside this fragile cocoon of elegance, the air was tight — too still, too heavy — as though the entire room held its breath.
