The dining room of the Dravik estate was an architectural masterpiece of cold marble and suffocating grandeur. Tonight, the long mahogany table, a piece of wood so polished it acted as a dark mirror, seemed to stretch for miles between them. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax candles and the rich, savory aroma of a five-course meal that neither of them had touched.
Amara sat at the far end, her small frame dwarfed by the high-backed velvet chair. She stared down at her plate of seared scallops, but the food looked like wax to her. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Hansen's face under the harsh fluorescent lights of the Ispire plaza. She saw the way his shoulders had slumped, the way his eyes had searched hers for a spark of the girl he used to know, only to find a stranger in a designer suit.
