12-26-2025, 10:52 PM
Adrian’s handshake was firm without challenge, the gesture practiced and sincere. Praise, when honestly given, was a thing he never hurried past. He inclined his head slightly at the compliment, as though acknowledging a shared standard rather than claiming sole credit.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Adrian said, and this time there was genuine satisfaction in his voice. He turned just enough to catch the bartender’s eye, two fingers resting lightly on the bar. “See that Mister Volthström never has to ask,” he added quietly. “A Negroni, whenever he likes. His preference.”
The bartender nodded at once, already moving.
When Adrian returned his attention to Olivier, his posture was more relaxed now. “We take our bar seriously here,” he continued when a new voice spoke.
Adrian’s eyes found the nearby woman almost without his meaning to look. She sat with the ease of someone who belonged wherever she chose to sit, her black jacket traced in silver that caught the light like fine filigree. The Negroni in her hand mirrored Olivier’s, the same dark red glow, lifted with familiarity rather than indulgence. She had been listening, he realized. Not rudely. Just social in the way of bars.
When she spoke, it was with an offhand warmth that suggested neither interruption nor apology, merely inclusion. Her accent was clearly Russian, and he placed her immediately as Muscovite. Adrian’s was clearly British, while Olivier’s was much more European.
Adrian smiled at her compliment, surprised despite himself. He did not recognize her, which was rare. Faces like hers tended to come with context. Wealth, certainly, but not the careless sort. Her clothes spoke of lineage and labels, and of a family whose name did not need to be displayed to be understood. Nouveaux riche, certainly.
He shifted, opening the circle without hesitation.
“Then I’m doubly pleased,” Adrian said smoothly, the practiced charm of the hotelier settling into place as naturally as his suit. ““Adrian Kane. I’m glad our bar meets your standards as well. Is this your first time here?”
There was no appraisal in his gaze beyond courtesy. He noted her youth, her poise, the intelligence in her eyes, but felt no pull beyond professional interest. Some people were beautiful in the way architecture was appreciated, but not desired.
He glanced between her and Olivier, the moment now broader than he had intended when he first rose from his seat. It occurred to him that this, too, served the business.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Adrian said, and this time there was genuine satisfaction in his voice. He turned just enough to catch the bartender’s eye, two fingers resting lightly on the bar. “See that Mister Volthström never has to ask,” he added quietly. “A Negroni, whenever he likes. His preference.”
The bartender nodded at once, already moving.
When Adrian returned his attention to Olivier, his posture was more relaxed now. “We take our bar seriously here,” he continued when a new voice spoke.
Adrian’s eyes found the nearby woman almost without his meaning to look. She sat with the ease of someone who belonged wherever she chose to sit, her black jacket traced in silver that caught the light like fine filigree. The Negroni in her hand mirrored Olivier’s, the same dark red glow, lifted with familiarity rather than indulgence. She had been listening, he realized. Not rudely. Just social in the way of bars.
When she spoke, it was with an offhand warmth that suggested neither interruption nor apology, merely inclusion. Her accent was clearly Russian, and he placed her immediately as Muscovite. Adrian’s was clearly British, while Olivier’s was much more European.
Adrian smiled at her compliment, surprised despite himself. He did not recognize her, which was rare. Faces like hers tended to come with context. Wealth, certainly, but not the careless sort. Her clothes spoke of lineage and labels, and of a family whose name did not need to be displayed to be understood. Nouveaux riche, certainly.
He shifted, opening the circle without hesitation.
“Then I’m doubly pleased,” Adrian said smoothly, the practiced charm of the hotelier settling into place as naturally as his suit. ““Adrian Kane. I’m glad our bar meets your standards as well. Is this your first time here?”
There was no appraisal in his gaze beyond courtesy. He noted her youth, her poise, the intelligence in her eyes, but felt no pull beyond professional interest. Some people were beautiful in the way architecture was appreciated, but not desired.
He glanced between her and Olivier, the moment now broader than he had intended when he first rose from his seat. It occurred to him that this, too, served the business.