The lounge at The Kensington Hotel was quiet, steeped in mahogany and money. Rich leather chairs. Crystal glasses. Old jazz floating under hushed conversations.
Andy Gates leaned back in his seat, eyes sharp and calculating. His phone buzzed once—an alert from a blog: “Brace Donovan and his fairytale romance—real or just good PR?” He smirked.
Right on time, the hostess arrived at his table. “Mr. Gates? Miss Miller has arrived.”
Andy stood just as Catherine Miller stepped into view. Dressed in a white silk blouse and tailored trousers, she looked every inch the aristocrat—refined, polished, and icy.
“Catherine,” he greeted smoothly, pulling out her chair. “You look… dangerous.”
Her lips curved, but not warmly. “You always had a flair for dramatics.”
Andy poured her a drink. “I appreci
