The hotel was the kind of place where reservations were made weeks in advance and the chandeliers cost more than most people's homes. Marble floors stretched across the lobby, polished to a mirror shine. The air smelled like fresh flowers and old money. It was, Arianne thought, exactly the sort of place Franz would choose for a Valentine's Day dinner—elegant without being ostentatious, private without being secretive.
They walked through the lobby together, her hand resting on his arm. He was wearing a dark suit. His hair was still tied back, though a few strands had escaped and fallen across his forehead. He looked tired but happy, the way he always did when he first came home.
People noticed them immediately.
