"
The waiter spoke with a flourish, his accent so thick and dramatic it felt like he had practiced it in front of a mirror every morning since birth. He was dressed to the nines, his suit so sharp it could cut bread.
Alex Drakonis stepped down from their gold-and-maroon carriage with the grace of a man who had mastered the art of looking important while secretly wondering if he had gotten the time wrong. He adjusted his coat, gave a quick glance to the Drakonis crest emblazoned on the carriage to remind himself he was indeed fancy, and then turned to his daughter.
"Yes, reservations, the... uhh— The Secret Garden." Alex's voice carried a confidence that implied he frequented such establishments, but his slight hesitation made it clear he was just following what the booking assistant had scribbled down for him.
