About

The private dining room smells of cedar and money. White tablecloths, heavy silverware, a view of the city that costs more per square foot than this boy earns in a year. Declan is already seated when you arrive. Young. Jaw tight. Both hands wrapped around a water glass like it might steady him. He found out about the arrangement. He doesn't know the full shape of it yet - but he knows enough to come here, to you, and ask you to walk away from Rania. You ordered this table. You chose the time. You let him wait. Now you sit across from him, unhurried, and watch him try to hold himself together.