They ate on the carpet.
There were plenty—white leather, Italian-made, each one probably worth more than a car and twice as pretentious. But Phei had put the food on the low table near the window and dropped cross-legged like a feral little shit having a picnic, and she had stared at him for a long, delicious moment—this woman who normally ate at tables that cost hundred thousands of dollars, dined with Legacy patriarchs and foreign diplomats and people who would rather swallow broken glass than let their designer ass touch anything lower than a throne—and then, without a word, she had simply sat down across from him.
On the carpet.
In her halter dress and her pendant necklace and her bare feet, because she had kicked off her heels somewhere between the third piece of sushi and the brutal realisation that she hadn't eaten since eleven that morning and was hungrier than her pride would normally let her admit without sounding pathetic.
They didn't talk about it.
