Page 49 of The Mourning Throne
Chapter 9
Part Two
The car ride to the restaurant was beautifully uneventful—calm, normal. The blur of the city outside softened under the evening haze, and for once, the constant shuffle between hotel and office receded into the background.
The repetition was beginning to wear on him. Suite. Elevator. Conference room. Elevator. Suite. It was nice to get out. To exist somewhere that didn’t reek of recycled air and pointed glares.
Lex had forwarded him the address earlier, and Morgan half-listened as Lex rambled on about how tired he was of ordering room service. How the restaurant had thousands of reviews and every single person swore it was the best risotto they’d ever had in their entire lives.
For an à la carte menu—with mashed potatoes starting at£28—Morgan could only hope it was the best food known to man. He couldn’t care less either way.
It wasn’t the stifling corner office with Gabriel.
It wasn’t the hotel with Ollie.
The restaurant was… fine. Tolerable, even, if he ignored the prices that made his jaw tense.
They were seated near the side, close to the bar and foot traffic. Open enough that Lex couldn’t raise his voice too much without drawing attention.
Once you’d seen one fancy, Michelin-starred restaurant, you’d seen them all.
It was like fundraisers.
Dim lighting that made it too hard to see what Morgan was eating. Deep, velvet walls—of course, they were velvet. Navy blue and overdone.Everythingwas velvet. The booth. The curtains. Even the menu had some sort of suede texture.
And then there was the chandelier. One of those godawful, dripping-crystal centerpieces that loomed overhead like a spider mid-descent.
The oversized painting above their table was a different choice—classical, violent, baroque. Some saint mid-martyrdom, draped in robes while angels mourned him. The candle light caught the gold leaf in all the wrong places, making the blood look like box wine.
Lex snorted so loud the second he looked up that people two tables over actually turned.
“Thatis a statement piece,” he mumbled, picking at the bread basket. “I can’t tell if it’s kinda pretty or just, like,a lot.”
Morgan flipped open the menu, scanning his finger down the wine and drink list. Overpriced, but the selection of reds were decent enough.
“It’s meant to be a conversation starter,” he said evenly.
“Do we want one of those for the house?”
Morgan didn’t look up. “Why? Are you wanting to start a bizarre and unorthodox art collection?”
“I dunno. The more I look at it, the more I like it.”
Their conversation slid into the mundane. Lex asked a dozen questions about how Morgan had guessed Ollie’s size. Practice, it was really that simple. But Lex, insatiable, wanted every detail. Every. Single. One. He turned insistent, louder, with each question, and when Morgan rolled his eyes, Lex only laughed.
“I’ve decided,” Lex announced, swirling the last bits of his fruity, virgin daiquiri. “I want the painting. I’ve fallen in love with it.”
Morgan glanced up at it one more time. He still didn’t see the appeal. The smell of aged oil paint turned his stomach.
“Why?”
“It’s somewhere between thedepressinganddepravedline.”
“If that’s the case, you’d love the auctions.”
“What auctions? Like slave auctions or some shit?” Lex asked, flippant, unconcerned.
Morgan pulled the knife through the steak, inspecting the piece before it went into his mouth. Too cooked, and not nearly salty enough. Flagging down their waiter seemed like a bigger waste of time than eating it.
