While Miles Sinclair was busy reassuring himself with selfish calculations, in another part of the city, a sleek black Rolls-Royce quietly rolled into a private commercial district exclusively reserved for high society.
This place lacked flashy signboards and crowded masses. There were only boutiques hidden behind meticulously pruned rows of trees, along with dark glass panels reflecting the night sky that was gradually descending.
Dominic Vance parked the car in front of a small bakery. It was called small, yet the entire facade was clad in white marble, and the interior radiated a soft, honey-like golden glow.
There were no price tags, nor were there display cabinets overflowing with cakes like in ordinary shops. There was only a dark oak counter, behind which stood a baker dressed in a pristine white uniform, bending over to adjust every single line of frosting on a petite sponge cake.
