The riverside restaurant hummed with the quiet, expensive murmur of Friday night. The air smelled of roasted garlic, expensive red wine, and the faint, lingering trace of Cael Alexander's cedar cologne.
Galathea Brooks sat across from the CEO of Artemis Art Gallery. She rested her chin on her hand, watching him methodically carve into his steak. The man operated with deliberate restraint, shaping every movement without visible urgency.
"Alex," Galathea started.
No response.
She looked up, the ambient light catching the sharp, uncompromising line of his jaw.
The corporate sterility of his tailored suit contrasted violently with the simmering, unspoken sexual tension that perpetually crowded the space between them.
"...Alex?" She tried again.
Still nothing.
He calmly sliced another piece of meat.
She narrowed her eyes, irritation bleeding into her tone. "Alexander."
Nothing. Not even a twitch of a muscle.
