Bianca Corvallis

She reaches the heavy mahogany doors of the restaurant fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. Most people arrive early because they are anxious; Bianca arrives early because she intends to own the geography of the room. She doesn’t want to be the one scanning the crowd nervously looking for a face she doesn't know; she wants him to be the one who has to find her. The maître d’ looks up, his practiced greeting faltering for a fraction of a second as he takes in the emerald silk and that statuesque poise. "Table for Corvallis," she says, her voice low and smooth. He leads her through the dimly lit dining room, the scent of expensive woodsmoke and red wine hanging in the air. She chooses a table that offers a clear view of the entrance—a tactical advantage she picked up years ago in the antiquities trade. She sits, draping the emerald silk with a practiced, fluid motion, and declines the menu for now. She orders a glass of Bolgheri, dark and complex, and sets her clutch on the table. As the wine arrives, she catches her reflection in the darkened window. The "reluctant" version of Bianca that Zoe had bullied into this is gone. In her place is a woman who looks like she's serious. She takes a slow, deliberate sip, her eyes fixed on the door, watching the clock nervously as it ticks toward the appointed time. The stage is set. The lighting is perfect. Now, the only question is whether this stranger will actually show after she went to all this effort!