“Well?” Richard asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the mahogany table. “Is it the final draft from the city planners?”

“Not exactly,” I said, offering Richard a small, pleasant smile.

Before Derek could answer, the swinging door to the kitchen creaked open.

Chef Laura emerged, followed by two servers carrying heavy silver platters.

The scent of roasted rosemary, garlic, and seared meat instantly filled the room, cutting through the sterile tension.

“Tonight’s main course,” Laura announced, her voice calm and perfectly modulated for a high-end dinner party. “Herb-crusted rack of lamb, accompanied by reduction of red wine and heirloom root vegetables.”

She did not look at Derek, nor did she look at the yellow envelope resting beside his wine glass.

Her eyes met mine for a fraction of a second, a silent acknowledgment of the stage we had set.

The servers began to set the plates down, their movements precise and silent.

The porcelain clicked softly against the wood of the table.

“This looks magnificent, Laura,” Richard’s wife, Eleanor, said, though her eyes kept darting back to the envelope in Derek’s hand.