Arianne didn't want to be here.
The bar was the kind of place where businessmen went after office hours to conduct deals they didn't want in boardrooms. Dim lighting. Leather booths worn soft by years of use. The low murmur of conversations that were never meant to leave the room. The air smelled like whiskey and old money and the particular arrogance of men who thought they were smarter than everyone else.
She'd been invited three times. She'd declined three times. The fourth invitation had come with a veiled implication that the prospective partner would show up at Rochefort Group if she didn't meet him here, and Arianne had decided she'd rather deal with him on neutral ground than in her own office.
Gio sat beside her in the booth, his tablet on the table, his expression neutral. Mira stood near the bar, close enough to intervene, far enough to give the illusion of privacy. Two glasses of whiskey sat untouched on the table. Arianne hadn't touched hers. She wasn't planning to.
