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Florentino’s is exactly the kind of restaurant that used to make me feel poor, frumpy, and entirely out of place just by walking past. It has crisp white tablecloths, a menu handwritten in elegant cursive on a chalkboard, and the mouthwatering scent of freshly baked bread, roasted garlic, and olive oil. It’s warm, softly lit, and filled with the comfortable hum of people having a genuinely wonderful time.

I stand in the entrance with Ruslan and Demyan a careful three steps behind me, anticipation rioting in my belly.

The maître d’ appears before I can second-guess myself. He’s silver-haired, impeccably dressed, and offers me an unhurried, welcoming smile, as though my arrival is the best thing that’s happened to him all afternoon.

“Miss Banks? Your party is already seated. Right this way, please.”

He leads me through the dining room, and I follow him, straightening my skirt and patting my hair for the twelfth time since leaving the house, two suited men guarding my back.

“Cora!”

Anya is already on her feet, waving from a sunlit corner table. Beside her are two women I haven’t met yet. One is dark-haired and sharp-eyed with the kind of striking, regal bone structure that makes you want to stare, and one softer, curvier woman with a radiant smile that breaks over her face the moment she sees me coming.

I cross the restaurant toward them as Ruslan and Demyan settle into the adjacent table like two very large, impeccably tailored gargoyles. Zevran insisted they come as well, though he swore they would be discreet.

“You came!” Anya says, pulling me into a warm, fierce hug the second I reach the table.

She holds me like we’ve been dear friends for years, and her effortless warmth makes a knot of emotion form in my throat. My eyes sting briefly as I hug her back.

She pulls away, her hands gently resting on my shoulders, and gestures at the table. “Mila. Katia. This is Cora.”

Mila, the curvier woman, beams at me as I take my seat. “We’ve heard so much about you! Well, not that much, because Mr. Komarov keeps his private life locked in a vault, but we know he rescued you and then proposed. I’m dying to hear every single detail.”

“Mila, please,” Katia says, a gentle, disapproving smile tugging at her lips. “Give Cora a moment to breathe.”

“Sorry! I just get so excited whenever I hear about engagements,” Mila admits, turning a vivid shade of pink.

Anya gives her friend a fond laugh, then turns to me. “How are you doing, Cora?”

It isn’t a polite pleasantry. It’s a real question from a woman who understands that the answer might be complicated.

“I’m…surprisingly well,” I say, taking a steadying breath. “But I’m still trying to catch up with everything that’s happened.”

Mila nods with understanding. Beside her, Katia turns her wineglass slowly in her fingers, her expression reflective.

“It takes time,” Anya says gently. “The first month I went home, I woke up every single night not knowing where I was, waiting for the cold concrete. But it gets easier. I promise you.”

I know that exact terror. More than once I’ve jolted awake in the dark with my heart hammering against my ribs, convinced I was still locked in that windowless basement.

Then I feel Zevran’s heavy arm across my waist, his warm breath against my neck, and I remember I’m safe.

The waiter arrives, and we order a feast. When the food comes, it’s extraordinary, but the company is even better. For an hour, we eat, drink, and talk about wonderfully ordinary things. Mila and her husband are renovating their kitchen, and she has passionate opinions about white marble versus gray quartz. Katia has a mischievous cat named Pushkin who recently shredded an expensive velvet armchair. Anya is learning to drive and finding parallel parking utterly humbling.

I tell them about the quiche I served to Zevran’s boyeviki, twelve intimidating, tattooed soldiers sitting around a formal dining table looking at the meal like they thought it was a test of loyalty or a trick. The story comes out so much funnier than I expected, and all three of them burst into laughter.

I laugh with them, and somewhere in the middle of it, a wave of overwhelming happiness washes over me.

How wonderful it is to sit at a table full of women who are genuinely happy I’m here.

My phone buzzes inside my purse. I slip it out and check the screen. Zevran.

“Sorry, ladies. One moment,” I say, pushing back my chair.

I weave through the tables toward the tall front window, pressing the phone to my ear and smiling. “Hi.”

“How is it, printsessa?” His voice comes through the receiver, deep and warm, with a possessive edge he’s trying hard to hide.

“Really lovely.” I know his call is equal parts wanting to hear my voice and making sure I’m safe, and I love him for it. “The food is incredible. We’re getting along so well.”