The restaurant was a small, aggressively unassuming bistro tucked into a quiet side street in the West Village.
It didn't have a Michelin star, but it had booths with high, curved leather backs that offered absolute privacy, which was the only currency Zara truly valued when she left her penthouse.
Ryan slid into the booth opposite her.
Zara wore a heavy, oversized cream sweater, the cowl neck pulled up high, and dark, oversized sunglasses resting on the table beside her plate.
Her hair was pulled back into a simple knot.
To a casual observer, she looked like any other affluent woman enjoying a quiet Tuesday afternoon.
"You look relaxed," Ryan noted, picking up a menu he had no intention of reading.
"I am relaxed," Zara said, leaning her chin on her hand.
She offered a warm, lazy smile.
