At nine o’clock the following Friday morning, I was sitting at a narrow marble bistro table in a quiet Midtown coffee shop, holding a china cup of black tea that had gone cold while I waited.

Sierra Vaughn sat across from me, wrapped in a cream cashmere coat that smelled faintly of expensive jasmine perfume.

She set her gold-cased phone face down on the small table, next to the stainless steel salt shaker and the napkin holder.

“Cole thinks I’m up in Greenwich doing an emergency client intake for the firm,” Sierra said, her tone smooth and dripping with fake warmth.

“He has no idea I messaged you yesterday morning.”