Il Cigno was arguably the most exclusive, pretentiously authentic Italian restaurant in Manhattan. The lighting was impossibly dim, the pasta was handmade by a chef flown in from Tuscany, and securing a reservation required either a Michelin star of your own or a net worth that ended in a 'B'.
Diana Sinclair was currently radiating smug satisfaction.
She sat at the best table in the house, a secluded corner booth overlooking the main dining floor. The maître d' had bowed so low his forehead almost touched his knees before he helped navigate her wheelchair to the table.
She was draped in a fresh cashmere shawl, sipping a glass of Barolo, absolutely loving the envious, awe-struck glances being cast her way by the other elite patrons.
She was being escorted by the Damien Sinclair after all.
"It has been so long since we sat down together like this," Diana sighed happily, swirling her wine. "Just the two of us."
Damien didn't say a word.
