Paris Le Rêve Noir, 8:37 p.m.
The restaurant exuded quiet power velvet booths, flickering candles, and a private string quartet whose music seemed to drift through the marble like smoke. Amira adjusted the strap of her silk dress and stepped into the room like it belonged to her.
Zion Carter was already seated, a half-smile playing on his lips as she approached. He stood as a gentleman would but there was nothing gentle about the way his eyes swept over her.
"You're early," she said, sliding into the seat opposite him.
"I prefer to study the battlefield before the first move."
She raised an eyebrow. "And I'm the opponent?"
"You're the unknown," he replied, pouring her a glass of red wine. "I always read the fine print."
The heat between them wasn't romantic. Not yet. It was something older. Rawer. As if they had met before in another life on opposite sides of a war.
Fifteen Minutes Later
"So," Zion said, swirling his wine lazily, "is this where you tell me about your vision for Fontaine Gallery? Or are you still pretending this isn't a rescue mission?"
Amira bristled. "The gallery isn't drowning."
"It's gasping," he said without malice. "And you're the only one pretending not to hear it."
She didn't flinch, even though she wanted to. "I came here tonight because I want to understand the man behind the money. Not the tycoon. Not the strategist. The man."
Zion's eyes darkened. "That man doesn't come out for dinner."
"You'd be surprised what comes out after a glass and the right question."
Elsewhere .That Same Night
Rosalie Laurent, Amira's best friend and PR manager, watched Amira's Instagram story on mute while sipping tea on her apartment balcony. The post was subtle just a glimpse of wine glasses, candlelight, and shadows. But she knew that lighting. She knew that mystery.
And she knew that man.
"Zion Carter," she muttered. "Damn it, Mira... what are you getting yourself into?"
Back at the Restaurant
"I Googled you," Amira said suddenly. "You've bought six companies in the last year. All floundering. All small. All... personal."
Zion blinked, surprised. "You researched me?"
"Of course," she said. "I don't dine with strangers. And your trail reads less like business and more like revenge."
A shadow passed behind his eyes.
"You're not wrong," he said quietly.
She leaned forward. "So who hurt you?"
For a heartbeat, Zion didn't answer. Then,
"I lost someone. A long time ago."
"To death?"
"No," he murmured. "To choice."
The air thickened.
"Her name was Elira," he added, almost too softly. "She chose to leave. And I chose not to chase."
"And you still regret it?"
He met her gaze. "No. I regret hesitating."
Later That Night
Back at her apartment, Amira kicked off her heels and collapsed onto her sofa. She scrolled through her phone and paused at a photo she'd taken weeks ago: a painting Celeste had loved ,The Quiet Flame. She hadn't posted it. Not yet.
But tonight, she did.
Caption: For the ones we lost before we could save them.
Seconds after posting it, she received a message from an unknown number.
Z:
You were right about the wine.
Next time, I'll pour truth instead.
She stared at the message, unsure whether to smile or delete it.
"Don't look for me, Z," she had said. "If you love me... let me disappear."
He didn't look for her.
But he never forgave himself.