Le Ciel occupied the top floor of one of the city's oldest luxury hotels—a place where reservations were booked months in advance unless your last name was Harrington. The private dining room was all muted gold, crystal chandeliers, and a single long table overlooking the skyline. Security was discreet but omnipresent: two ex-SAS types in dark suits stood just outside the frosted-glass doors, earpieces glinting. Eleanor never dined without them.
She was already seated when they entered—back straight, silver-streaked hair coiled in a perfect French twist, wearing a charcoal Armani power suit that cost more than most people's cars. A single emerald pendant at her throat caught the light like a warning. Her face was composed, beautiful in the way marble statues are beautiful—cold, flawless, untouchable.
She rose as they approached. "Finlay." A brief air-kiss to each cheek. Then her gaze shifted to Clara—appraising, not warm.
"Clara. You look… well put-together."
Clara inclined her head. "Thank you, Eleanor. It's good to see you."
They sat. A sommelier appeared instantly with chilled Sancerre; plates followed in silent choreography—foie gras, truffle risotto, Wagyu that melted like butter. Conversation stayed surface-level at first: foundation updates, Fin's latest portfolio moves, the weather in the Alps.
Then the interruption.
A man in his late forties—tailored suit, Rolex, the kind of self-made money that still smelled new—approached from the main dining room. He'd clearly bribed or charmed his way past the hostess. Security tensed but didn't move yet; Eleanor hadn't signaled.
"Ms. Harrington," he said, voice oily with confidence. "I've followed your work on the merger with Voss Industries. Brilliant play. I'd love to discuss potential synergies over coffee sometime. My card—"
He extended a platinum-edged business card, eyes dipping unmistakably to the neckline of her suit, lingering on the emerald pendant—and lower.
Eleanor didn't take the card. She regarded him like one might regard a mildly interesting insect.
"You've followed my work," she repeated, tone flat. "How flattering."
The man smiled wider, mistaking her calm for interest. "Absolutely. A woman of your caliber—intelligence, beauty, power—it's rare. I'd be honored—"
Eleanor lifted one manicured hand. The gesture was small, but the room seemed to shrink around it.
"Mr…?" She glanced at the card without touching it. "Whitaker. Your firm manages mid-cap portfolios. Last quarter's returns were 4.2% below benchmark. Your largest client pulled half their assets in March after you recommended that ill-fated biotech play. You're currently under review by the SEC for disclosure violations on a private placement."
Whitaker's smile froze.
Eleanor leaned forward slightly. "I maintain the Harrington name—and the Harrington fortune—because I know exactly who approaches my table, why they approach, and what they hope to gain. You are not the first man to mistake lust for leverage, nor will you be the last. But you are the least interesting."
She signaled with the barest flick of her wrist. The two security men materialized behind Whitaker like shadows. One took his elbow with polite firmness.
"Escort Mr. Whitaker to the elevator. Ensure he finds his way out."
Whitaker's face went scarlet. "This is—"
"Humiliating?" Eleanor finished for him, voice silk over steel. "Yes. Let it be a lesson. Next time you wish to speak to me, earn the right. Until then, stay in your lane."
The men led him away. The room exhaled.
Fin stared at his plate, cheeks pink. Clara kept her expression neutral, but inside she felt a mix of awe and dread. This was Eleanor: untouchable, unassailable. A fortress wrapped in couture.
Eleanor turned back to them as if nothing had happened. She lifted her wine glass, took a measured sip.
"Now," she said, eyes locking on Clara. "Tell me, dear—how are things with my son? Truly."
Fin straightened, eager to please. "Great, Mother. Clara's been amazing. We're thinking about—"
Eleanor raised a hand again—silencing him without looking away from Clara.
"I asked Clara."
Clara met her gaze. "We're good, Eleanor. Fin's wonderful. Supportive. Generous."
Eleanor's lips curved—just a fraction. Not quite a smile.
"Generous is easy when you have billions to be generous with." She set her glass down. "I'm more interested in whether he's enough for you. A woman like you—vibrant, ambitious—needs more than gratitude and gifts."
Fin flinched visibly. Clara felt the words like a slap.
Eleanor continued, unruffled. "But we'll discuss that another time. For now… enjoy the meal."
The rest of lunch passed in careful small talk. Fin simped harder than ever—refilling Clara's glass, complimenting her every bite, glancing at his mother for approval like a schoolboy.
Clara smiled through it all.
But under the table, her phone vibrated once—silenced, face-down.
A preview notification from Mike: "Thinking about you in that dress. Can't wait for Saturday."
She didn't look at it.
But she felt the heat rise anyway—guilt, excitement, and the faint, terrifying echo of Eleanor's words.
Needs more than gratitude and gifts.
Clara squeezed Fin's hand under the table. He squeezed back—grateful, adoring, oblivious.
And across from them, Eleanor watched everything.
Missing nothing.
Saturday arrived like a thief—quiet, inevitable, and faster than Clara had prepared for.
She stood in front of the full-length mirror in the walk-in closet, smoothing the hem of a simple black cashmere sweater dress Fin had bought her last Christmas. Elegant. Safe. Nothing that screamed "date." She told herself it was just a movie. Two hours in a dark theater. Public. Harmless.
Fin was in the living room, scrolling through emails on his tablet when she came out. He looked up, eyes softening the way they always did when he saw her dressed up.
"You look beautiful," he said, standing to kiss her cheek. "Meeting Sarah for drinks?"
Clara nodded, the lie sliding out smoother than she expected. "Yeah, girls' night. She's been stressed with work. Might be late."
Fin didn't question it. He never did. He just smiled—grateful, adoring—and pulled out his black Amex from his wallet. "Take this. Just in case. Buy whatever you want. Shoes, drinks, whatever makes you happy."
She hesitated, then took the card. The weight of it felt like guilt made metal.
"Thank you, babe." She kissed him back—quick, light—then grabbed her coat and left before the knot in her stomach could tighten any further.