Page 59 of The Unfluencer

He blows out a long breath. “Girrrrl…”

Aw, damn. “What?”

“Long story short,” he begins before diving into a tale. The location of tonight’s meeting was never included in the email by design, as Clive just learned when he contacted Warner’s office. And it’s after hours, right? A response wouldn’t be expected. But when the autoreply popped up, supplying the email for Warner’s assistant, Greer, he jumped on it, firing off a quick inquiry about the location. To his surprise, another message immediately appeared in his inbox, confirming, A car is on the way right now.

I nearly choke on my gasp.

“Sorry, what? On the way where?” I ask.

Turns out it’s not just a car, either.

Rushing to look out my dining room window, I peek through the shutter in time to watch a sleek black Maybach pull into my driveway.

“Oh my God.” I sprint over to the mirror in my foyer, inspecting my sexy, black, double-breasted cape blazer dress, checking my hair and makeup, then immediately chastising myself for primping for this man who’ll undoubtedly prove he’s exactly who the media thinks he is, and still doesn’t deserve deathbed love. But also, who sends a luxury black car service for a business meeting?

And how did he even know my address?

Not fourteen minutes, not fifteen, but fourteen and half minutes of panic-texting Clive and the divas later, the chauffeur-driven, obscenely comfortable, high-end automobile pulls alongside the curb outside Cibo Nero, and I try not to be impressed.

I try.

Flashy symbols of wealth have never moved me. Money is simply a means to manipulate and control others. Gertrude can attest to that.

But Cibo Nero is the new exclusive dining experience. The menu reads like an ode to the rustic elegance of Italian cuisine with rich Southern soul food flair. Slow-cooked collard greens with fresh basil and garlic. Fried chicken with sage-infused tomato gravy and a side of creamy pecorino baked macaroni. Handmade gnocchi and okra stewed with Tuscan tomatoes.

It’s a foodie’s dream.

Shoot, if things don’t go well on my follow-up gyno appointment, a Cibo Nero reservation’s definitely going on my Light the Way wish list for a final meal.

Hence why getting in is a test of patience and connections. The waitlist stretches a year long, and even then, reservations are granted like The Hunger Games, only to those whose odds are ever in their favor.

Curiosity overtakes me.

Did Warner already have a reservation, and he’s just bringing me along? Did he call in a favor? Maybe this is simply an available parking spot, and we’re meeting at the candle store next door, who knows.

As the chauffeur cuts the engine, exits, and rounds the car to open my door, though, I’m both confused and disappointed when the “CLOSED” sign comes into view.

“Thank you,” I say anyway, taking his hand and stepping onto the curb.

Restless, I wait for his instructions.

And for a beat, it’s really awkward. He’s just standing silently next to me, with my bare legs exposed to the chilly elements, as if I’m not on the verge of my demise and supposed to know the first thing about what’s happening.

Say something.

But he doesn’t, and I sure as hell don’t either.

So I just stare at the exterior of the building, studying the unassuming, nondescript door tucked between Wax Poetic and Farrah’s Vintage Clothing shop for two solid minutes before it suddenly swings open and a beautiful, copper-skinned waif of a woman in a black suit greets me.

“Good evening, Ms. Graves!” She beams. “Welcome to Cibo Nero. We’ve been expecting you. May I take your coat?”

They’re expecting me?

“Uh, sure.” I manage a shaky smile, slipping my arms free as I steal a glance past her shoulder into the warm, rustic dining room. Every white-clothed table sits empty, tiny tealights flickering at their centers. Amber light casts a soft glow over wooden chairs and bright, earthy art. And somewhere in the background, soulful Italian opera—J’Nai Bridges, I think—drifts through the warm air, blending with the faint hum of conversation.

Instant relief washes over me.

Of course. It’s just a private event. Warner’s probably brought his attorneys and his assistant, keeping things low-key and confidential. Discreet.