“Just a moment,” Emily said softly. “I’ll bring you something easier.”
She hurried into the kitchen, requested a bowl of hot soup, and returned less than four minutes later. While other diners glanced impatiently at their watches or whispered about the delay, Emily pulled up a chair and sat beside the woman as if time itself could slow down — even though it couldn’t.
“Slowly,” she said with a gentle smile. “There’s no rush.”
The elderly woman let out a faint laugh of gratitude.
“Thank you, dear.”
“Are you here alone?” Emily asked while carefully guiding the spoon. “Is someone coming to pick you up?”
The woman opened her mouth to answer.
But she never got the chance.
Across the room, near a pillar, a man had been watching the entire scene without looking away.
He had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and ordered an espresso that now sat cold and untouched. His dark tailored suit and understated watch did not advertise wealth loudly — they carried it quietly.
His name was Alexander Whitman.