Los Angeles shimmered under an indifferent sun, all glare and glamour, a city made of reflections pretending to be light. Even the air felt deliberate, perfumed with ambition and warmed by vanity.
Willow stepped out of the car beside Victor, the dry wind teasing her hair into motion while the skyline stretched endlessly beyond them. Glass towers cut into the horizon with the promise of everything and the guarantee of nothing, rising in clean lines that looked almost unreal in the harsh brightness.
Victor placed a hand at the small of her back and guided her toward a brushed steel doorway without signage. The entrance was discreet. No logo, no greeters, nothing to suggest exclusivity except the quiet certainty that it existed. A woman dressed in black stood inside and smiled as if she had been expecting them since morning.
"Mr. Soren," she said smoothly, inclining her head in greeting. "Your table is ready. Please follow me."
