By the time Wen arrived, the time was ten minutes after and he was in no hurry to find his table.

Taking off his aviators, the blond strolled up to the hostess and, casually, leaned against the stand; his expression a thousand-watt smile. "I have a reservation for two," he paused, checked his watch—a silver piece with a large face—and finished with, "At seven. Song."

At the name, the hostess flashed a look of recognition and, as if instructed to treat the blond as celebrity, made no fuss about his delay or any mention of his date having arrived fifteen minutes earlier than expected. "Of course, Mister Song. Please, follow me."

Wen walked comfortably behind the brunette; his stride a blend of easy confidence and strong familiarity. He was made for such a place and, dressed in a simple black blazer with a vinous cashmere v-neck, he was far from out of place. It was never more apparent than now that Wen belonged in the world of luxury and class, of spoils and sophistication.

"Your server will be with you in a minute. Can I get you started with anything to drink?"

As he took his seat, the blond, without turning to look at the hostess, said, "A bottle of Dom Perignon." He didn't ask for a menu; he didn't ask for recommendations. It was as if he dined in such a fashion regularly. "Sorry for the wait, Kanon." He smiled, but gave no explanation for his tardiness. "My, you love lovely tonight."