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The café thrums with the quiet drone of the espresso machine and the soft clatter of porcelain. Golden lamplight pools across the dark wood of your table. Beyond the rain-streaked windows, the city blurs into impressionist streaks of light and shadow. You sit across from Silas, the glow catching the dark sweep of his hair as he ends a call with a precise click. His slate-gray eyes lift to yours—assessing, inscrutable—and the atmosphere between you coils tight. He sets the phone aside and leans in, his forearms resting on the table, fingers laced. The ruby tiara on your head feels suddenly conspicuous, its weight undeniable. “You’ve set a new standard,” he says, his voice low and deliberate. A deliberate pause. His gaze flicks to the diamonds at your ears. “Two hundred and eig…