This cathedral of excess rises above us, the air rich with silence and heavy as velvet.
Dark paneling lines the walls, climbing higher than you’d expect and swallowing sound so every table lives in its own private little bubble. The lighting shines on elegant white plates, while shadows gather everywhere else.
My mother would call the ambiance “tasteful” but would meanexpensive, which, underneath, would meanexclusive.
I spent a lifetime running from this kind of establishment, where privilege doesn’t have to strut or shout. Power is assumed the moment you waltz through the door. So woven in, nobody even bothers to question if you belong.
After all, the staff and prices keep the rabble out.
Kirill’s solid hand settles at my back. I wait for the old reflex places like this always bring—the clench, the dread—but it never comes.
Instead, a quiet calmness centers me, a realization that I find terrifying.
The maître d’ stands by his podium like a penguin in a perfect suit with hair the color of old silver. He’s all smiles fora couple in thousands of dollars of silk and tailoring. But when his eyes flicker to Kirill, his pupils dilate just slightly and his jaw tightens.
He knows. No question.
And suddenly, the rich couple no longer matters. He leaves them mid-sentence and steps toward us with deliberate caution.
He inclines his head like a butler in an old movie. “Mr. Kozlov’s man. What an unexpected pleasure.”
Kirill nods. The smallest possible acceptance. “Best table.” He doesn’t even pretend to request.
The maître d’ never blinks. “Of course. Right this way.”
He leads us past the velvet ropes, past the waiting people who must have lived in anticipation for months.
Kirill doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.
I wonder what it’s like to float through the world so sure of your own gravity that you never question where you belong.
I thought I’d overcome my feelings of inadequacy, but now that I’m back in the world of the “haves,” I realize the old insecurities never truly faded. I sense every stare as I weave between the tables, following Kirill’s lead. I’m careful not to let my skirt touch the pristine white tablecloths or catch my shoes on the curved legs of the thick, padded chairs.
My mother’s voice repeats lesson after lesson in my mind. Chin up. Eyes forward. Shoulders straight. Don’t stare at the food or the heavy, polished silverware on the tables.
I can meditate all day and night, but that doesn’t erase the memory of her disapproval or the sting of her glare when I failed to reach perfection.
I straighten my shoulders and force my chin high. Even if I was never good enough for Mom’s eyes, I won’t let these strangers see me waver.
A carved wooden screen partially obscures our corner table. A crystal vase with a single orchid sits in the middle, the white petals glowing in the gloom.
I don’t wait for the maître d’ to pull out my chair.
Kirill doesn’t comment on my act of independence, though the edge of his mouth twitches.
The moment we’re seated, a server materializes with a bottle of red wine.
“Mr. Kozlov’s selection.” No further explanation required.
This Kozlov guy must have a lot of money and power. Though I already figured that out when that maître d’ identified Kirill as Kozlov’s man. Commanding a man like Kirill would require serious influence.
The wine they pour is ruby red, starlight shivering in the crystal. I haven’t even touched the thick, ridiculously tall leather menu yet. Neither has Kirill. He just sits, all shadow and certainty, those winter-pale eyes fixed on me.
I want to glance away from the searing intensity, but I won’t.
Another server, one with an immaculate dark bun and a hint of a polite smile, comes to the edge of the alcove.
Kirill speaks without turning. “Halibut.” He hesitates just long enough to peer up at me. “Right?”
