That narrows it down.
By the time the fifth message arrives, I already know.
I’m stuck with my stepsister’s brats and that dreadful old man from last night. Save me.
Vika. Of course.
I stare at the screen for one beat too long. Not because of her. Because of the wording.
Stepsister’s brats.
That sort of casual contempt is exactly the kind of thing women like her think passes for wit. It usually tells me nothing useful.
Today, it definitely does. Something in me goes still.
I type back before I can decide not to.
Where?
Her response comes almost instantly, which means she has been holding the phone and waiting.
So you do care. Marlowe’s by Pier 6.
Elena watches my face. “Bad news?”
“Unclear.”
“Woman?”
I look at her.
She does not apologize.
I stand. “Cancel Kostin.”
Her brows lift. “The lunch?”
“All of it.”
“He flew in from Chicago.”
“He can fly back.”
That gets the smallest pause. Then she says, “We’re going to Pier 6.”
“Yes.”
She closes the folder. “Understood.”
The river drags a hard wind off its surface, and the lunch crowd along the pier is full of women in expensive coats pretending they are comfortable and men in cashmere pretending they know boats.
Marlowe’s is one of those places that wants to be both exclusive and relaxed, which means white tablecloths outside, heat lamps that never quite work, oysters on every other table, and waiters with the expression of men who judge your watch before your reservation.
The hostess starts to smile when I walk in, then recognizes me and loses the smile in favor of something more respectful.
I don’t ask for the table.
Katerina is facing the water.
