The restaurant was warm against the December cold.

A wreath hung on the door, and the windows were frosted at the edges, the city lights bleeding through in soft halos. Inside, the lighting was low and golden, the tables set with white cloths and small candles. The murmur of other diners was a comfortable hum beneath the clink of glasses and silverware.

Arianne and Franz arrived together. The maître d’ recognized them — or recognized Franz, at least — and led them toward the back of the restaurant without asking for a name. They were halfway across the room when a young woman stood up from her table.

"Excuse me — Noah? Mr. Hart?" 𝑓𝘳𝘦𝑒𝑤𝑒𝘣𝘯ℴ𝘷𝘦𝓁.𝑐𝑜𝑚

She was young. Early twenties. Nervous in the way fans were when they weren’t sure if they should approach. Her friend was still seated, phone half-raised, debating whether to take a picture.

Franz stopped. His expression shifted into the polite warmth he used for these moments — genuine enough to be kind, distant enough to be professional. "Yes?"

"I’m so sorry to interrupt. I just — I’m a huge fan. I’ve watched everything. The Waiting Room. The Second Cut. All of it." She was speaking too fast. "I was wondering — the second season. Do you know when it’s coming out? I’ve been checking online and no one will say anything."

Franz smiled. "We’re still in production. The studio hasn’t locked a date yet. But they’ll announce it soon. I promise it’s coming."

"Thank you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you."

"You’re not bothering me. Enjoy your dinner."

The fan nodded, glanced at Arianne with a flicker of recognition — she knew who she was, Arianne could tell, but she was too polite or too nervous to say anything — and sat back down. Her friend lowered her phone, looking slightly disappointed that she hadn’t gotten a picture.

Arianne said nothing during the exchange. She never did. This was his world — the fans, the recognition, the careful management of a public persona that wasn’t quite him and wasn’t quite not. She’d learned to stand beside him in it without interference.

He touched her elbow as they walked on. Brief. Light. There and gone.

Gilbert and Audrey were already seated in a booth near the back.

Gilbert had the look of a man who’d arrived early and ordered without waiting — a glass of whiskey already in front of him, a bottle of wine open on the table. Audrey was beside him, her coat draped over the back of her chair, her expression relaxed in a way Arianne hadn’t seen on her before. She looked happy. Settled.

"You started without us," Franz said, sliding into the booth across from them.

"You were late."

"We were on time. You were early."

"That’s the same thing."

"It’s mathematically not."

Arianne sat beside Franz. He picked up the menu immediately and began scanning it. She knew what he was doing. He’d done it at every restaurant they’d been to since they started going out together. He’d look for something she’d like — her preferences filed away in his mind from a year of shared meals — and then he’d suggest two or three options, and she’d choose one. It was a small ritual. She’d never commented on it. He’d never explained it.

"The salmon looks good," he said. "Or the pasta. You liked the pasta last time."

"The salmon."

He nodded. Set the menu down.

Gilbert was watching them with a faintly amused expression. "Do you always order for her?"

"I don’t order for her. I make suggestions."

"That’s ordering with extra steps."

"That’s being helpful."

Audrey hid a smile behind her wine glass. Arianne said nothing. But her knee pressed against Franz’s under the table.

The first course arrived. The conversation drifted through the easy channels of old friends — the twins, the company, the filming schedule. Franz’s remote shoot had been grueling but productive. Gilbert’s company was closing out the fiscal year.

When the plates were cleared and the second glass of wine was poured, Audrey leaned in slightly. Her expression didn’t change — still relaxed, still pleasant — but her voice dropped into something quieter. A journalist’s voice.

"I found something on Miriam Sanders."

Arianne’s attention sharpened. She didn’t react visibly. Neither did Franz. Neither did Gilbert — he already knew, she could tell. Audrey had told him before tonight.

"She’s alive," Audrey said. "She vanished from Montclair years ago, but I traced a pattern. Payments into an account under a different name. A brief appearance in a city two years ago. She was using an alias, but the facial recognition software picked her up. Someone paid to make her disappear. Someone with resources."

"Who?" Arianne asked.

"I don’t have a name yet. The payments were routed through a shell but I’m following the trail. She’s been hiding. Someone helped her hide. Whoever that someone is, they wanted her gone badly enough to erase her."

"Keep digging. Carefully."

Audrey nodded. "I’m being careful. But whoever buried her might still be watching. If they realize someone’s looking for her—"

"They won’t." Arianne’s voice was calm. Certain. "You’re too good for that."

Audrey didn’t blush at the compliment, but something in her expression warmed. She picked up her wine glass and leaned back, the journalist’s mask slipping back into the friend.

Arianne set her fork down. The restaurant hummed around them.

"There’s something I need to tell both of you," she said. Gilbert already knew. She’d told him at the driving range. But Franz needed to hear it all together, and Audrey needed the full picture.

She told them. Evelyn’s disclosure. Arianna Brennan. The brother who’d found her body. The decades of revenge disguised as profit. The siphon, the shells, Dominic as a tool aimed by someone he never knew.

"I understand the motive," Arianne said. "The Summers family destroyed his sister. My father named me after her like a memorial. He’s been trying to destroy me in return. I understand the anger." She paused. "But I’m going to stop him. He killed Alex and Layla. Whatever his reasons, that’s unforgivable."

Gilbert’s jaw was tight. He’d heard this before, but it didn’t get easier. Franz was silent beside her.

"I’ve been trying to locate him," Arianne continued. "He’s not using the Brennan name. I couldn’t find anything. But I remember something. From when I was a child."

She paused. The memory was old, fragmented — the way childhood memories were.

"Before my parents died. Before I was thirteen. A man came to the house. He met with my father in his study. I didn’t know who he was. I was too young to understand. But looking back, I think it was him. Arianna’s brother."

"How do you know?" Audrey asked.

"I saw him. Once. Maybe twice. He was angry. Even as a child, I could feel it. He looked at me like he knew who I was. Like he’d been waiting to see me." She paused. "I don’t believe in coincidences. Something happened when I was thirteen. Before my father died. Before my mother died. Something that set all of this in motion."

Gilbert leaned forward. "Do you have a name?"

"Howard. I don’t remember the last name. I was young. I heard my father say it once — ’Howard is here’ — and then the study door closed." She shook her head. "It was more than twenty years ago. Investigating now will be difficult. Records are buried. Witnesses are gone."

"I’ll see what I can do." Gilbert’s voice was steady. "There must be something. Visitor logs from your father’s estate. Guest lists from the funeral. If this Howard attended, someone wrote his name down. There’ll be a record."

"Be careful," Audrey said. "If he’s been watching all this time — and he has — he’ll notice if someone starts digging into his past. Don’t act on anything that could give away what you’re doing."

"We move quietly," Arianne said. "Like we’ve been doing. Nate’s tracing the Sinclair investors. The PI is following the restaurant lead. We don’t tip our hand until we’re ready."

The tension broke.

Audrey raised her wine glass to take a sip. The candlelight caught her hand.

Arianne saw it. A ring. On the fourth finger of her left hand. Not flashy. It was elegant, understated, a single diamond set in a platinum band. Audrey’s style. Simple. Permanent.

Arianne looked at Gilbert. "Congratulations."

Gilbert paused. His hand was halfway to his whiskey. "What?"

"You took too long." Arianne nodded toward Audrey’s hand. "When’s the wedding?"

Franz glanced at Audrey. Audrey’s face flushed — not the controlled, professional mask from earlier, but a real blush, the kind that started at her collar and crept up to her hairline. She looked down at her glass, then at Gilbert.

He looked caught. Not unhappy. Just unprepared for the conversation to turn this direction.

Audrey’s face flushed. "We haven’t set a date yet. But Gilbert wants first quarter next year. Late January or February. Before summer gets too busy."

"The new year is always busy," Arianne said.

"That’s what I said. We didn’t want to rush it. And after the calendar turns, you and Gilbert will be buried in quarterly reports. So we’re aiming for late January. Maybe February. Before the summer rush."

"That’s practical," Arianne said.

"We’re practical people," Gilbert said.

Franz raised his glass. "To first quarter."

"To first quarter," the table echoed.

The evening wound down.

The restaurant had emptied slightly. The candles were burning low. Outside the frosted windows, the city was dressed for December — lights strung across the streets, the faint sound of a bell ringer on the corner, the particular hush of cold weather and warm interiors.

Gilbert and Audrey left first. Gilbert helped her into her coat, his hand lingering at the small of her back, the gesture so natural he probably didn’t notice he was doing it. They walked out into the cold, their shoulders touching.

Arianne and Franz stayed a moment longer.

"She’s happy," Arianne said.

"He’s happy too. He just doesn’t know how to show it without arguing."

"He showed it tonight."

Franz’s knee pressed against hers under the table. "So did you."

She looked at him. "What did I show?"

"You said congratulations. You noticed the ring before anyone else. You asked about the wedding." He paused. "You’re invested. You care about them. You let it show."

"They’re family."

"Yes. They are."

His hand found hers on the table. His fingers interlaced with hers. Outside the restaurant, the spring evening had cooled.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Ready."

They walked out together into the night.