Chapter 31
Nora's POV
I grabbed my coat and headed downstairs. A brand-new silver sedan sat idling at the curb, its headlights cutting through the early evening gloom. The passenger window rolled down, and Benjamin's grinning face appeared.
"Nora! Get in!"
I walked over slowly, taking in the pristine paint job and the dealer plates still mounted on the bumper. "Ben... did you buy a car?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. "My parents did. They said I couldn't keep borrowing the work van for personal stuff, so they just... went ahead and bought this."
Nothing fancy. The leather seats still had that new-car smell. I slid into the passenger seat, my fingers grazing the spotless upholstery. The contrast between this pristine vehicle and my father's ten-year-old Ford hit me harder than I wanted to admit.
I suddenly realized Benjamin was one of those kids who'd never really struggled. The kind who graduated college without debt, whose parents could casually drop thirty grand on a car because their son needed "independence."
"Where are we going?" I asked as he merged into traffic.
"This place in Silverton my friend told me about. The chef won an award last year, supposedly does incredible things with salmon and truffle pasta." His eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "I've been dying to try it."
My stomach tightened. "That sounds expensive. We could just grab burgers somewhere—"
"Nora." He shot me a serious look, the kind that made him seem older than twenty-two. "You've been training me for a year. Keeping me from screwing up cases, teaching me how to talk to clients without sounding like a textbook. Let me do this. Please."
The sincerity in his voice made it impossible to argue. I nodded slowly. "Alright. But don't order too much."
He laughed, that easy, unburdened sound. "Deal."
---
The restaurant materialized from Silverton's downtown core—floor-to-ceiling windows framing candlelit tables, waiters in crisp white shirts moving with choreographed precision. Benjamin handed his keys to the valet without hesitation.
Inside, the maître d' led us past tables occupied by couples in designer clothes, their conversations a low murmur beneath jazz piano. Our table was tucked near a window overlooking the city lights.
"Can I start you with wine?" the server asked, materializing at Benjamin's elbow.
"Just water for me," I said quickly.
Benjamin ordered a bottle anyway, then dove into the menu with the excitement of a kid in a candy store. "The pan-seared salmon with lemon butter. And the truffle cream fettuccine. Oh, and the lobster bisque to start. Nora, what do you want?"
"A salad is fine."
"Nora." He lowered the menu, giving me that look again. "Come on. Live a little."
I sighed and scanned the options, my eyes catching on prices that made my chest tighten. Finally, I pointed to the grilled lamb chops. "Those. And maybe the Caesar salad."
Benjamin proceeded to order six dishes total, including a chocolate lava cake for dessert, brushing off my protests with an airy wave. "If we can't finish, we'll get boxes. No big deal."
The food arrived in stages, each plate arranged like a work of art. Golden-crusted salmon glistening with butter. Fettuccine twirled into perfect nests, flecked with black truffle shavings. Lamb chops fanned across herb-roasted vegetables. It looked like something out of a culinary magazine.
I pulled out my phone almost without thinking, angling the camera to catch the soft candlelight playing off the salmon's caramelized skin. Adjusted the contrast slightly, framed the truffle pasta just right. Posted it to Instagram with a caption: Deep-night food porn. Bon appétit!🍽️✨
Benjamin watched me with an amused smile. "You know, for someone who acts all serious and professional at work, you're surprisingly... different when you let your guard down."
I set my phone aside, feeling oddly defensive. "Work is work. Life is life. I'm not going to turn into some joyless robot just because I handle tough cases."
"That's probably why you haven't burned out yet," he said thoughtfully, spearing a piece of lobster. "You know when to step back. Most people in our line of work forget how."
His words settled over me like a blanket I hadn't known I needed. Maybe he wasn't wrong. Maybe holding onto these small moments—the good meals, the Instagram posts, the fragments of normalcy—was the only thing keeping me sane in a job designed to grind people down.
"Thanks, Ben," I said quietly.
He grinned. "For what? The overpriced pasta?"
"For reminding me I'm allowed to enjoy things."
---
Julian's POV
The private dining room on the restaurant's second floor felt more like a cage than a courtesy. Silverton's mayor sat at the head of the table, flanked by Jeremy and three representatives from the local lycan business council. They smiled too much, laughed too loudly at jokes that weren't funny, and treated every word I spoke like a divine proclamation.
I cut into the filet mignon they'd insisted on ordering for me, took a single bite, and set down my fork. The meat was cooked perfectly. That was the problem. It was too perfect, too deliberate, like everything else about this dinner.
"Is something wrong with the steak, Mr. Sterling?" the mayor asked, his tone hovering between concern and panic.
"It's fine." I reached for my water glass instead. "Just not particularly hungry."
A lie. I was starving. But the thought that Nora had refused my invitation, possibly to meet with her boyfriend right now, made my appetite vanish.
Jeremy cleared his throat. "We're honored you could join us tonight, sir. If there's anything—"
"There's no need for this next time." My voice came out colder than intended, and I watched Jeremy flinch slightly. "I appreciate the hospitality, but elaborate dinners aren't necessary. A working lunch would suffice."
Silence dropped like a curtain. The mayor's smile froze in place, and one of the lycan representatives shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Of course," the mayor said finally, his voice strained. "We just wanted to ensure you felt welcomed in Silverton."
Welcomed. As if rolling out red carpets and seven-course meals would somehow distract me from the fact that this city's budget reports had more holes than Swiss cheese. I'd seen the preliminary audit results Ethan compiled yesterday. Silverton's DSW funding had been systematically siphoned into "infrastructure projects" that never broke ground.
I stood abruptly, and every head at the table snapped toward me. "If you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to. I'll arrange for someone to handle any follow-up questions."
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Sterling," Jeremy said, half-rising from his chair. The others followed suit like synchronized puppets.
I left without another word, my footsteps echoing down the hallway toward the elevator.