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“Yes,” Charlotte agreed, reaching over and squeezing my hand. “Go enjoy yourself.” She handed me my coat. “Don’t order the fish. I know that restaurant. The pasta is exceptional. Order the penne with pesto.”

“Pesto on a date? What if I get basil in my teeth?”

“I thought this was a professional dinner.”

I laughed. She caught me.

“Well, then. Alfredo. Or the rosa.” Her expression turned serious. “Text me when you get back.”

“I will.”

* * *

The driver greeted me by name and opened the rear door as I approached.

We moved south along the park while Manhattan slipped past the windows, golden in the last light of the evening. By the time we turned onto the Upper West Side, I had to remind myself that this was dinner to discuss Aurora.

The restaurant was on a side street off Amsterdam. I had walked past it a few times over the last eight years but had never dined there. From the outside, it was unassuming. A single door, a small window, and a name in serif lettering above the overhang. Inside, it was warm, narrow, and low-lit. The tables were close enough for conversation but spaced far enough apart for privacy.

Alexander was already there.

He stood as I came in, the movement so natural it felt less like etiquette and more like instinct. Out of the boardroom, in a dark jacket that fit him precisely, he was somehow more than I had prepared for. Taller. Broader through the shoulders than the Chairman’s stillness usually let on.

His eyes met mine and lingered just a fraction longer than before. “You look beautiful, Dr. Rossi.”

I felt my cheeks get warm. “Please, call me Emilia. And thank you.”

“Emilia,” he repeated quietly, as though committing it to memory. He stepped closer. “May I?”

It took me a moment to realize he meant to help me take off my coat. He was close enough that I caught his scent. I remembered it from the balcony in the rain. The recognition moved through me before I could stop it. I slipped it off. For an instant, his hands brushed my shoulders as he took it and passed it to a waiting member of staff.

He led me to our table, drew out my chair, and waited until I was seated before taking his own. His attention remained on me until I was comfortable, only then shifting to himself.

He had ordered wine already, but he asked me if I would prefer something different. I thanked him and was relieved to not have to make the decision. The menu arrived handwritten on a single card, and we leaned closer to read it together. I trusted Charlotte’s judgment and went with the penne with rosa sauce. Alexander ordered the fish. I tried hard not to laugh. Charlotte was going to be hearing about this.

We began, naturally enough, with Blackwood Hall.

I told him the Fellows’ Dining Room had become one of my favorite places in New York. I had not planned on saying it, but it was true. He asked why and waited for the answer. Not the polite kind of waiting where someone was already preparing what they would say next. He actually wanted to know.

“It feels earned,” I said. “Not the room itself. The room is beautiful, but that isn’t all of it. It’s the feeling in it. People arrive there having done something that morning that mattered to them. You can see it in the way they talk to one another.”

“You notice people.”

“It comes with the work.”

“Being a scientist?”

“Yes. And working with the same team for years. People reveal quite a lot when they care about what they are doing.”

“Yes, they do.”

“Tell me about Blackwood Hall. How long did it take to become what it is now?”

“Four years of physical work, though the planning began many years before.”

“What was it like before the changes?”

“It began as a Gilded Age opera house,” he said. “After the Depression, it passed to a charitable trust, then through several institutions over the decades. By the time I found it, the opera house had been closed for nearly thirty years. The residential wings were empty. Structurally, it was magnificent. Practically…” Something eased in his expression. “It was an exceptionally well-preserved problem.”