The driver pulled up to the front of The Solace Room, a luxury restaurant nestled high above the city skyline. Known for its exclusivity and discretion, it was where deals were signed over aged wine, where power whispered instead of shouted.
Elara stepped out of the sleek black car, the cream dress hugging her form like it had been tailored to her skin. Her long auburn hair fell in soft waves, brushing her exposed shoulders. The golden flecks in her green eyes shimmered as sunlight caught them—eyes that had watched too much, endured too much, to ever be truly soft.
The hostess at the front smiled. "Miss Blake? Right this way."
She followed silently, heels clicking across marble floors. Patrons turned their heads—not because they recognized her, but because she was unmistakably captivating. Beautiful in a way that didn't ask for attention but commanded it.
They reached a tall door near the back, and the hostess pushed it open.
"A private room. Mr. Vale reserved it in advance."
Of course he did.
The room was elegant—white roses in a crystal vase, soft lighting, a panoramic window that overlooked the city. A single table stood in the center, set for two. Too perfect. Too prepared.
Elara sat with a sigh and glanced at the time. 1:00 p.m. sharp.
She waited.
Minutes ticked by.
At 1:06, she checked her phone again. No messages. No updates.
By 1:12, her fingers tapped rhythmically against the table. She hated being ignored.
By 1:17, the door hadn't budged.
"Seriously?" she muttered, sitting back against the chair with an annoyed huff. "Is this part of his charm? Keeping people waiting like he's royalty?"
She stood, walked to the window, then paced back. A waitress came in briefly to offer water.
"Still waiting?" the woman asked politely.
"Elara gave a tight-lipped smile. "Apparently he's unfamiliar with clocks."
The waitress chuckled nervously and retreated.
1:21 p.m.
Elara had had enough.
She grabbed her clutch and walked toward the door, ready to leave. But just as her fingers curled around the handle—
It opened.
And there he was.
Zayden Vale.
Every story, every magazine headline, every whisper she'd ever heard about him—none of it did justice to the man who now stepped inside.
He was tall, broad-shouldered beneath an immaculate dark suit. His raven-black hair was slicked back with effortless precision, and his skin held that smooth golden hue that glowed beneath the soft lighting.
But it was his face that froze her.
He smiled.
Slow. Controlled. Charismatic.
And beneath that smile—calculating eyes, sharp and unreadable, like they were constantly studying the world for weakness.
"Elara Blake," he said, voice smooth as velvet. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting."
She stared at him for half a second longer than she should have, then snapped back into herself.
"You're only twenty-two minutes late," she replied coolly. "I'm sure that's considered punctual in your world."
His smile widened. "How generous of you to notice."
She stepped aside, folding her arms, not offering her hand. "If this is your version of a first impression, I'm not impressed."
He walked past her like a breeze through silk, casually lowering himself into the seat across from hers.
"Well then," he said, gaze never leaving hers, "this should be fun."