The café on 10th Street smelled of fresh espresso and warm pastries, the kind of place where conversations stayed low and deals happened between bites of avocado toast. David arrived early, choosing a corner table under the striped awning where the afternoon light filtered through the trees in soft patches. The black 540i was parked a block away, its tinted windows hiding the city's reflection.
Michelle Langford arrived ten minutes late, stepping out of a sleek white Mercedes that screamed quiet money. She was thirty-eight, elegant in a cream silk blouse and tailored trousers, diamond earrings catching the light. Her dark hair was pulled back loosely, and her eyes — sharp, restless — scanned the patio until they found him. She smiled, not the polite social smile she probably used at fundraisers, but something more curious, almost hungry.
"David," she said, sliding into the chair opposite him. "Thank you for meeting me. Victoria said you were private. I like private."
