The dinner at a tucked-away bistro in Salcedo Village felt like sitting in a room filled with gas while someone flicked a lighter. The ambiance was perfect—soft jazz, dim amber lighting, and the scent of truffle oil—but for Cheska, every bite of her sea bass felt like swallowing glass.
Across the table, Alliana was glowing. She was in the "honeymoon phase" of her relationship with Joie, her hand permanently intertwined with Joie's under the table. Alliana looked happy, peaceful, and utterly oblivious to the fact that she was breaking bread with a man who managed a global black market and the woman who was currently helping him launder his conscience.
"So, Matt," Alliana said, leaning forward with a playful glint in her eyes. "Cheska told me you've been helping her with a new marketing strategy for a 'specialized logistics firm.' It's so sweet that you're taking such an interest in her career. I always thought you were the brooding, all-work-no-play type."
Cheska nearly choked on her Sauvignon Blanc, the tart liquid burning her throat. Beside her, Matt didn't flinch. He sat with the terrifying stillness that came from years of being the family's primary problem-solver, his face a mask of polite boredom. He reached over, his hand covering Cheska's on the table. He squeezed—a warning, a grounding force, and a silent plea for her to play along.
"It's a niche market, Alliana," Matt said, his voice as smooth as aged silk. "High-value, specialized transport. Very high-risk, but the rewards are... significant. Cheska's insights on 'brand protection' and public optics have been invaluable to the family's more sensitive accounts."
Cheska kicked him sharply under the table, her heel connecting with his shin. "He means I tell him when he's being too 'aggressive' with his clients," she added, her voice tight. She shot a look at Joie.