The dining room at Meridian is a vault of expensive silence and flickering amber light. Dara sits at table nine, her back to a pillar, watching the shadow-play of the open kitchen. The air smells of charred cedar and the faint, metallic tang of a pressurized service. She rests her left hand on the starch-white cloth, the jagged scar on her thumb catching the candlelight. It is a souvenir from a night seven years ago, a reminder of the girl who used to bleed for the man currently ruling the pass.
She has booked the table under the name Elizabeth Vance, a phantom with no history and a clean palate. Around her, the well-heeled crowd hums with the electric thrill of Julian’s return, but Dara only feels the cold weight of her notebook in her purse. She is here to be the ghost he never saw coming. Her hands are steady, even as the familiar, rhythmic bark of his voice drifts from the kitchen, low and polished like worn stone.
A shadow falls over the white linen, and Julian Beaumont is standing at the edge of the table.
