Clara’s POVEleanor chose her hotel suite.She’d chosen exposure deliberately, Gabriel and I arrived at seven, he knocked, she opened the door herself. Just Eleanor Vane in a grey sweater I hadn’t seen before, something soft and unremarkable, the furthest thing from the cedar-and-authority Blackwood office I’d constructed her from.She looked at us both.“Come in,” she said.The suite had a sitting area, a low table with food already laid out, bread, cheese, a bottle of wine and one of sparkling water. The specific spread of someone who had thought about the gesture and then deliberately made it smaller than their instinct.We sat.Eleanor poured wine without asking.Handed Gabriel his, handed me mine, took her own and sat across from us and looked at the table for a moment before she looked up.“I’ve been working out what to say since Cambridge,” she said. “Since the coffee shop, since I sat across from you, Ms. Sterling, and understood that what I’d built at Blackwood had consequenc
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