The question is too smooth to be innocent.
I look back at her.
She lifts one brow. “Please. I may spend my life smiling at donor luncheons, but I’m not stupid. Men don’t vanish from first dates with that expression unless something very interesting happened in the meantime.”
I almost tell her to mind her own business.
Instead, I remain silent, and in the silence she gets her answer.
She leans back in her chair, not offended in the slightest. If anything, she looks relieved all over again. “Well,” she says softly, “that saves us both a tedious evening.”
The corner of my mouth lifts despite myself.
Behind the polished manners, behind the charity boards and tasteful gowns and carefully curated public image, she is like every other person in our world. Strategic. Self-protective. A little ruthless when it matters.
Even the kind ones have sharp edges.
She reaches for her glass again, though she does not drink. “Since we’re being honest, perhaps we can still be useful to each other.”
I go still. Maybe this is the real reason for the evening. “Go on.”
“My family has a development project stalled in the city,” she says.
“Nothing scandalous. Just… delayed. You have influence in places where my father’s name is beginning to mean less than it used to.” Her tone remains light, but I can hear the ambitionunder it. The calculation. This dinner, then, was never only a dinner. It was reconnaissance. A chance to see me up close and decide whether I was usable.
I should resent that.
Instead, I find it oddly refreshing.
At least she is not pretending this is about chemistry.
“And what would you want from me?” I ask.
She gives me a small, elegant shrug. “A word in the right ear. Maybe two. In return, I let the evening end gracefully. No offense. No gossip. And, if necessary, one or two public appearances at some later date so the world can believe whatever version of this story is most convenient.”
Smart woman.
I let the silence stretch just long enough for her to wonder whether she has pushed too far. Then I nod once.
“Fine.”
The satisfaction in her face is immediate, though she is too well-trained to let it show fully. “Wonderful,” she says.
I straighten. “My office will be in touch.”
“Of course.”
I incline my head. “Thank you for your understanding.”
She lets out a soft laugh. “Mr. Vasiliev. Let’s not pretend either of us is upset this didn’t become romantic.”
Fair. I give her the ghost of a smile and turn away.
The moment I step back inside, my focus sharpens into something colder. Harder. Because now that the polite performance is over, one fact remains:
Zatanna is not where I left her.
The moment I realize she’s gone, everything inside me goes still.
