ARIA

The Carlyle Hotel is exactly what I expected—old money elegance dripping from every crystal chandelier and silk curtain. The kind of place where reservations are made months in advance, unless you’re Dante Ashford.

Then they simply materialize a private dining room the moment you walk through the door.

“Mr. Ashford.” The doorman practically bows. “Your mother is already seated. May I take your coat?”

Dante’s hand remains firmly on my lower back as we’re escorted through the ...