Sylvia began regretting the T-shirt before she even reached the coffee shop.
Rina had been right.
The jeans fit well. The jacket made the outfit look intentional instead of desperate. The T-shirt, unfortunately, was doing exactly what Rina had promised, which meant Sylvia spent the entire walk from the car to the café feeling as if her own body had joined a conspiracy against her.
She tugged at the jacket, stopped, then tugged again.
The driver did not comment.
Thomas had sent the address to a small coffee shop on a quiet side street not far from the palace quarter, though still far enough that it did not feel like a political trap disguised as caffeine. The front had dark green window frames, a narrow sign in brushed brass, and warm light spilling through the glass. Autumn leaves had gathered against the curb, damp and gold beneath the streetlamps, and the air smelled of rain, roasted coffee, and the faint smoke of chestnuts from a vendor somewhere farther down the street.
