The ambient pulse of the club roared on below the mezzanine, but inside the semi-circular leather booth, two distinct worlds had formed. On the right, Noah and Leon were loudly entertaining four laughing girls, popping champagne and boasting about speculative market plays.
In the middle sat Jake, swirling the dark single malt in his glass. Beside him, Magdalene remained perched on the outermost inch of the leather seat, rigid as a statue, staring at her untouched glass of iced tea as if it might detonate.
Jake turned his head slightly, taking in her posture. He could practically feel the waves of anxiety radiating off her.
"The tea isn't poisoned," Jake noted casually, his voice dropping into a smooth, low register that easily cut through the surrounding bass. "It's just peach tea."
