Lydia POV We don’t meet at the office. That would be too visible. Too easy to trace. Instead, it’s a quiet restaurant tucked between two office blocks that pretend not to compete with each other. Midday traffic hums outside, but inside it’s controlled low voices, polished tables, people who understand discretion without needing to say it. He’s already there when I arrive. Of course he is. Men like him don’t wait where they can be seen waiting. I recognize him from Damien’s file immediately. Not because of his face, but because of how he sits—measured, slightly angled, aware of everything without looking like he is. He stands when I approach. “Mrs. Cole.” His tone is polite. Neutral. Careful. “Mr. Hargrove,” I reply, taking the seat across from him. No small talk. No wasted movement. A server appears, places water, leaves. Silence settles between us—not uncomfortable, just… deliberate. He studies me for a moment, as if recalibrating expectations. “I didn’t expect you t
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