Night slipped easily over the city, draping the skyline in mirrored light.  

The Renor car—a long, immaculate sedan—waited at the curb when Lilia stepped out of Quill Capital.  

The driver opened the door with the same distant courtesy she gave her own employees.  

Inside, leather seats and silence.  

By the time they reached the restaurant, she had already rehearsed her polite smile twice.

It was one of those rooftop places that sold the view more than the food—  

dim lighting, city glitter spread beneath glass walls, and a pianist who seemed too careful not to be heard.  

Ralf Renor stood as she approached, his suit too casual to be accidental.  

“Ms. Quell,” he said warmly, “you make every room look expensive.”  

“Then at least the restaurant will match its price,” she replied, her smile calibrated at precisely fifty percent warmth.  

He laughed, gestured for her to sit, then waved for the sommelier.  

“Red or white?”  

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I can’t drink tonight. I caught a bit of a cold.”  

He paused for only a second before recovering his charm.  

“Then juice, of course. Freshly pressed—health comes first.”  

The waiter retreated. Ralf leaned back, folding his hands like a man about to deliver a story.  

And he did—his family’s ventures, their holdings in half the city, his vision for “responsible” capital.  

It wasn’t arrogance exactly, more like someone performing the idea of success.

Occasionally he let his words slip sideways:  

“You’re too capable to stay buried in meetings. Someone like you deserves the world to bend a little.”  

He smiled as if that line had never failed him before.

Lilia nodded at the right places, her posture immaculate.  

She’d been through this theater enough times to know each cue: listen, deflect, laugh, steer the topic back to business.  

To him, her composure probably looked like mystery.  

To her, it was armor.

By the end of the meal, her smile had calcified.  

Ralf insisted on walking her to the door. “Allow me to drive you home,” he said, already signaling the valet.  

“Thank you, but I have another stop,” she replied evenly.  

“A friend of mine’s in the hospital—I promised to check in. My driver’s waiting outside.”  

It wasn’t a lie she’d planned; it just came out, easy as breathing.  

He hesitated, then recovered with a gracious nod. “Another time, then.”  

“Of course.”  

Outside, her driver was already there.  

The restaurant lights flickered across the car’s surface as she got in and closed the door.  

“Back home, ma’am?”  

“Yes,” she said automatically.  

The car rolled forward.  

The city passed by in fragments—neon, rain-streaked glass, people she’d never meet.  

She let her head rest against the seat, eyes half-closed.  

The lie she’d told sat strangely in her chest.  

She imagined his face—half asleep, the bruises fading, that small, confused smile when he saw her at the hospital.  

The thought should have felt intrusive. Instead, it steadied her breathing.  

At the next red light, she spoke before she could stop herself.  

“Turn around.”  

The driver glanced up in the mirror. “Ma’am?”  

“Saint Brigid Hospital,” she said quietly.  

“We’re not going home yet.”  

The driver nodded without comment and made a slow U-turn.  

Outside, the traffic hummed; streetlights blurred into long streaks of white and gold.  

She watched them pass, one after another, until her reflection disappeared against the glass.  

The city, for once, seemed to move with her rather than around her.  

And somewhere in the space between impulse and reason, she realized—  

her excuse had become true.