The interior of The Velvet Anchor was a sanctuary of amber lighting, polished mahogany, and the low, mournful hum of a saxophone drifting over hidden speakers. It was the kind of place where secrets weren't just kept; they were fermented slowly, like good whiskey in charred oak.
Behind the bar, two men occupied the narrow space between the high-shelf spirits and the brass rail. Simon, weary-eyed and steady-handed, had his back to the room, methodically polishing a crystal decanter until it caught the light like a captured star. Opposite him, Edward—the man who'd once shared a cab with a terrified Eloise—faced the front, his hands restlessly wiping down a counter that was already immaculate.
"You're doing it again," Simon said, voice a low rasp that didn't require him to turn.
Edward's hands paused, gripping the damp rag like an anchor. "Doing what?"
