The restaurant was quiet and tucked away in the Upper West Side. Clifford chose a private corner lit by a soft chandelier, with a candle between two untouched glasses with a bottle of wine. The air smelled of roasted garlic and wood, and soft jazz played in the background—perfect for a private talk.
"I'll be brief," Clifford said, his voice low and steady, though his eyes couldn't hold still. "I know you see me as an enemy right now, and maybe I deserve it. But I swear, I've never plotted anything against you. Not once."
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the polished table, trying to bridge the space between them. Elena, however, sat back in her seat, one leg crossed over the other, her face calm and unreadable, like a closed book.