Rosalie was already seated when he walked in. Since it wasn't a date, she had gone ahead and ordered a coffee while she waited, and was sipping it slowly, going over what she knew about the situation with Boyd in her mind. She wished that everyone would stop lying and help her out, but that didn't seem to be the case. The man who walked in at 5:30 wasn't one she recognized, but she knew it was D1 all the same by his clothes: expensively distressed, not aligned with the old money classicism of the penthouse dwellers.
She herself was dressed to the New York standard: black. Her dress was long sleeved to cover the scratches on her arms, paired with tights to cover the bandages on her legs, and had a lower neckline than she usually wore because, you know, everything else was covered. Rosalie was becoming a pro at dressing to hide whatever was her injury of the week. If he read the anonymous posts, he probably would have recognized her (blonde and wealthy, with cleavage) but she motioned to him after a few moments anyway. She was tired and she just wanted to find out about Boyd and then go home.