While Andrés tried to make sense of the strange, fluttering certainty in his chest—this thing he dared call love—the atmosphere inside L'Ambroisie pressed down like a velvet weight. It was a restaurant that made menus unnecessary; power arrived already known, unspoken, unquestioned. Soft amber light pooled across polished marble floors, crystal chandeliers glittered like frozen tears, and the air carried the restrained perfume of truffle butter, seared meat, and money—heady, intoxicating, impossible to ignore.
But for Eleanor Starling, the environment felt less like a five-star restaurant and more like a high-stakes interrogation room. She sat perfectly upright in her chair, shoulders squared, spine straight—every inch the woman who had learned long ago how to endure while smiling.
