The restaurant was quiet in a calculated way.
It wasn't empty, it was never empty. It was curated. Soft lighting, low-volume conversations, and the faint, rhythmic clink of expensive sterling silver against crystal.
This was the kind of place where power sat at linen-covered tables and spoke in controlled tones.
Lucien Volkov fit into the atmosphere far too easily.
He sat by the window, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair, the other hand scrolling through his phone. To any casual observer, he looked relaxed.
Unbothered. Even bored.
But the stillness in him wasn't calm. /It was intent.
He didn't look up when the chair across from him scraped lightly against the polished floor.
"I don't like being summoned, Lucien."
Ciara's voice carried a sharp, icy edge. She sat down, crossing her legs with practiced elegance. Her eyes were already on him—narrowed, assessing, and full of a pride that refused to be humbled.
