The café was quiet—too quiet for Dianne's liking.
Soft classical music played in the background, the kind meant to calm nerves and encourage discretion. Polished marble tables reflected the golden light of the chandeliers above, and every server moved with practiced elegance. It was the kind of place her father preferred when he wanted conversations to disappear the moment they ended.
Dianne sat straight-backed across from him, her fingers curled tightly around her porcelain cup.
Mr. Jenkins stirred his coffee slowly, deliberately. He had not looked at her since she arrived.
That alone made her uneasy.
"Well?" he said at last, without lifting his gaze. "Did you handle it?"
Dianne swallowed.
"Yes," she answered quickly. Too quickly. "Everything went according to plan."
The spoon paused.
Her father finally looked up.
His eyes were sharp—calculating, merciless. The eyes of a man who had built empires by breaking others without hesitation.
