(Etienne's Point Of View)
New York felt wrong.
The city was too loud, too crowded, too full of memories I'd spent three years trying to bury. Even from the suite window the skyline leaned on me—glass and traffic and the thin, stubborn breeze off Central Park. The hotel room my assistant had booked was sterile and expensive: lacquered surfaces, perfect lighting, the faint chemical tang of hotel soap. It should have felt like coming home.
It didn't.
I'd barely set my bag down when my phone rang. Vivienne.
"You landed," she said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"Dinner tonight. Seven. I've already made reservations."
"I have meetings tomorrow. I need to prepare—"
"Etienne." Her tone sharpened. "Seven o'clock. Don't make me ask twice."
She hung up before I could argue.
