Three days later, Lena stepped out of a black SUV into the cool shadow of a discreet corner café in lower Manhattan. The sky was thick with clouds, casting long gray shadows over the storefronts. It wasn’t a glamorous place, which made it perfect for this kind of meeting—no paparazzi, no fancy menus, no champagne service. Just brick walls, bitter coffee, and secrets whispered over chipped porcelain cups.
She wore a navy trench coat belted tight at the waist, her hair swept into a low bun, her heels low and sensible. This wasn’t about power dressing. It was about control.
Carson hadn’t wanted her to come. He had tried, gently but firmly, to persuade her otherwise.
“He’s not worth your time,” he had said that morning.
But Lena had only replied, “That’s exactly why I have to go.”
Now, as she entered the café, her eyes scanned the room. Ruth sat two tables back, dressed like an art professor with her oversized shawl and reading glasses, pretending to read a novel. Behind her, a security o
