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The air smelled of polished mahogany, aged wine, and the faint perfume of old money. I sat up straight beside Xavier, forcing a bright, polite smile even as my stomach turned with anxiety that felt tighter than the pressure from Elias's deadline.
The dining table groaned under an array of dishes that screamed old-money excess in the most refined, almost intimidating way: a starter of seared foie gras perched atop delicate brioche toasts, glistening with a reduction of aged balsamic and scattered with paper-thin shavings of black truffle that released an earthy, decadent aroma with every breath.
The main course of butter-poached Wagyu fillet, so tender it practically melted at the touch of a fork, paired with glossy asparagus spears drizzled in a silky hollandaise and tiny roasted heirloom potatoes finished with flakes of Maldon salt that caught the chandelier light like tiny diamonds.
