He drew closer, each step measured and assured. When he came to a halt just a foot away, Elena felt the full extent of his height—he towered over her by nearly a head. He extended his hand—a large hand, with prominent veins and long, elegant fingers.
Elena placed her hand in his. The first contact was electric—a wave of warmth that raced from her fingertips to her wrist, then up her forearm, and all the way to her shoulders. His grip was firm yet gentle—neither crushing nor limp. As though he were cradling something precious.
“Christopher. Christopher Walker.” He introduced himself, still holding her hand. “I’m the hotel manager. Thank you for accepting my invitation.”
Elena knew exactly who had found her address and breached her sanctuary, yet Christopher’s composure and calmness made her lower her guard—just slightly. Her voice came out a little raspier than she had intended.
“I’m Elena. Elena Gold.” She continued in a warm, courteous tone: “You have a truly beautiful hotel.”
Christopher’s smile widened just a fraction. “Beyond its beauty, it holds many fascinating qualities—you’ll come to know them better soon. Shall I have the pleasure of showing you around?”
Elena looped her arm through Christopher’s, and they set off toward the hotel café. She could feel the weight of other people’s gazes on her skin—curious looks, admiring glances, even a few envious ones. But Christopher paid no attention to anyone. His entire focus was on her, as though, in that moment, no one else existed in the room.
The hotel’s main café was a space of lavish elegance—with soaring ceilings, walls paneled in dark wood, and light spilling from wall sconces with amber-glowing globes. The air was thick with the scent of aged leather, fine tobacco, and whisky. The barman—an elderly man with impeccably combed white hair and a spotless white jacket—stepped forward at the sight of Christopher.
“Mr. Walker.”
“Victor—a glass of Dom Pérignon Rosé for Ms. Gold, and for me, a Glenmorangie, please.”
The deftness and dignity of his choice drew Elena’s gaze toward Christopher for a fleeting moment. Victor, the barman, gave a silent nod of acknowledgment and turned toward the shelves of bottles without a single sound. Christopher gestured with a quiet motion, guiding Elena to a secluded corner of the café—two dark brown leather armchairs, facing each other, with a small mahogany table between them. On the wall behind them hung a painting of a sailing ship, locked in a desperate struggle against monstrous waves, caught in the iron grip of a ferocious storm.