I was dropped off at Velmora, one of those quiet, expensive restaurants. I checked the time as I took my seat, and Cynthia was late. Of course she was.
I ordered a glass of juice, more to keep my hands busy than anything else, and leaned back slightly, letting my gaze drift across the room while I waited.
Minutes stretched. Then hours. My patience thinned gradually, the calm I had built earlier beginning to fray at the edges. Eventually, I exhaled and pushed my chair back, ready to leave.
But just as I turned, she walked in right on time, or perhaps deliberately late. I didn't comment. I didn't greet her beyond a look as she approached and took her seat across from me, her movements composed, her expression unreadable in a way that told me everything between us had shifted.
Something had changed. I could feel it.
