Cellie's POV
The dinner had happened.
I was still thinking about it three days later, standing in Georgiana's bedroom watching my stepsister exist in her wedding dress like she had been assembled specifically for it, and the dinner was still occupying a corner of my mind with the specific persistence of an evening that had changed the configuration of something.
Demetrio had sent a car at seven as promised. He had taken me to a restaurant where the lighting was the kind that required decisions rather than just ambiance, where the menu did not have prices and the sommelier appeared without being summoned, and we had sat across from each other and talked for three hours about everything the folder had contained and everything that came after it.
