"To my brother," Andrew answered.
Elisabeth didn't pretend that was romantic. She simply nodded once, like she'd just confirmed the actual contract in a room full of decorative clauses.
"The consort," she said.
"Yes."
Her amber eyes flicked to his phone on the table, the screen dark, but Andrew hadn't moved it away. A small tell. She didn't comment on it again, but Andrew noted that she'd noticed.
A waiter hovered at the edge of the table with that polished, nervous patience staff in the capital mastered. Elisabeth lifted two fingers, not even looking at him.
"Still water," she said. "And something dry. No fruit."
Andrew didn't interrupt. He ordered when the waiter's attention shifted to him. "Old-fashioned and keep it simple."
When the waiter left, Elisabeth leaned back in her chair, settling into a posture that said she was used to sitting across from men who lied for a living.
"So," she said, practical. "Milo sent you, or you volunteered?"
