The Mandarin Oriental's private dining room was a sanctuary of quiet luxury, smelling of expensive leather and white truffles.
The air was warm. It was thick with heat and the low sound of string music from somewhere down the hall. The carpet under my shoes was deep. It swallowed my footsteps. The room was small, corner, with dark wood panels and a single window that looked out over the Cotai Strip. The glass was cold against my palm when I passed it. Outside, the light was white and sharp. Inside, the light was low. Gold from the sconces.
I sat at a corner table. The tablecloth was white and heavy. It felt smooth under my fingers. The silverware was cold. It made a soft _clink_ when I adjusted the fork.
I was wearing the charcoal suit. The fabric was heavy on my shoulders. It held the shape. The Patek Philippe on my wrist was cool against my skin at first, then warmed. It was heavier than it looked. It ticked, soft, against the quiet.
