Midtown Bar Verbal Breeding Contract
The black town car dropped them at a nondescript brass door tucked between two Midtown office towers. No sign. Just a discreet brass plate that read “The Reserve.” David’s hand was damp on Lauren’s lower back as they stepped inside. The hostess — elegant in black silk — checked a tablet and led them down a narrow staircase into warm amber light.
David closed the spreadsheet and let the glow of the three monitors wash over the dark Tribeca loft. Outside, the Hudson was a black ribbon threaded with the lights of Jersey. Inside, the only sound was the low hum of the HVAC and the occasional creak of the exposed brick as the old building settled for the night.