"You have a gift, you know," I say, watching her reaction.
The blush deepens. "It's just coffee."
"It's more than that." I take a sip. Let the moment stretch. "You make people feel taken care of. Not everyone can do that."
"It's my job."
"Is it?"
She doesn't answer. Just looks at me with those clear blue eyes.
I lean forward slightly. Her breath catches. Just barely. But I catch it.
The air between us is charged. Thick with everything unsaid. I can see her pulse in her throat, fast and unsteady. Can see the way her hands grip the edge of the counter like she needs something solid to hold onto.
The door opens.
Artan walks in.
His expression shifts the second he sees us. The neutral mask he usually wears hardens into something sharper. More territorial.
"We need to go," he says to me. His voice cold.
The moment breaks like glass.
I pick up my coffee. Flash Lily a smile designed to unsettle. "Faleminderit, dashuri.Thank you, sweetheart."
Then I follow Artan out.
The office is set up like a war room.
Luan sits at his desk, posture perfect despite everything. The laptop is positioned directly in front of him, angled so the camera catches him from the most flattering position. The curtains are pulled almost shut, filtering the light into something dim and deliberate. Enough to see him clearly, not enough to expose the slight unfocus in his eyes.
"Sit there," Luan says. Points to another chair close to the desk.
I sit. He adjusts slightly, turning his head toward where my face would appear on the screen if this were the actual call. His movements are controlled. Practiced. He's been preparing for this.
"Good," Artan says. He moves behind Luan, positioning himself so his hand rests on Luan's shoulder.
To anyone watching, it looks like support. The second-in-command standing behind his leader.
But I know better. It's a signal system. Artan can guide Luan's gaze with pressure, redirect his attention with subtle movements.
"Ready?" Artan asks.
Luan nods once. Sharp and final.
The call connects.
Five faces appear on the screen. Older men. Hard faces weathered by decades of violence and calculation. Eyes that have seen everything and survived it. Men who've built empires on blood and loyalty and fear.
Luan's uncle Driton sits center. His expression is unreadable, carved from stone.
"Luan," Driton says with a measured voice. "Thank you for finally making time."
"Uncle," Luan says. His voice is calm. Respectful without being deferential. "I appreciate the Council taking time to speak with me."
"We have concerns," Driton says. "As I'm sure you understand."
