To my mother, my work at the Department of Defense was a vague clerical embarrassment.

She pictured me carrying coffee for men who mattered. I’d stopped correcting her years ago.

Tonight I wore the crimson dress she’d practically begged me into — not because she’d won, but because arrogant men reveal far more when they think you’ve dressed for their approval.

He guided me to my chair, his hand resting heavily on the small of my back — a shade too much pressure, a small assertion of dominance.

“Your mother says you work somewhere around the Pentagon,” he said as he sat.

“Near it.”

“Administrative?”

“Sometimes.”

He let out a low, patronizing chuckle. “That usually means yes.”

When the waiter approached, Adrian waved away one of the leather menus. “She’ll have the sea bass. No butter. Reserve Chardonnay.”

The waiter hesitated, his eyes darting to me.

“I’m allergic to sea bass,” I said.

Adrian’s smile tightened, the skin around his eyes going taut. “Since when?”