They chose the restaurant because it required no explanation.
It occupied the same corner of the city it always had—impossible to miss, unnecessary to justify. Its reputation had long since passed into quiet consensus. The kind of place where outcomes were assumed and discretion was structural. Where conversations ended without witnesses and memory was optional by design.
Willow recognized it immediately.
The way the maître acknowledged Lorrlyne without pause.The way they were guided past the visible tables without ceremony, placed where light softened edges without revealing too much—present, but exempt.
The restaurant carried itself the way old institutions did—confident enough to be quiet. Dark wood worn smooth by time rather than trend. Linen heavy enough to fall correctly every time. The air held traces of wine, capital, and something older still: the residue of decisions that had never required permission.
