The next day at exactly eight, he was already there.
The restaurant hummed softly—low jazz, dim amber lights, the kind of place that made time slow down on purpose. At the reserved table in La Petite Table, a single red rose lay beside a neatly folded napkin. It was a small gesture, almost reluctant, like something he'd added at the last second and would never admit to.
"Right on time," he murmured when you approached.
He stood as you reached the table, his custom suit fitting his broad frame with effortless precision. For a man whose presence usually bent rooms around him, the way he pulled out your chair was unexpectedly gentle—old‑fashioned, deliberate.
"You know," he said as you sat, voice low, controlled, "for someone who insisted this wasn't a date…"
A pause. The corner of his mouth twitched.
"…you look surprisingly beautiful tonight."
He cleared his throat immediately after. "Not that it matters. Since this isn't a date."
The contradiction lingered between you, warm and unmistakable.
He reached for the wine bottle, fingers steady, and poured a glass for you before filling his own. "Wine?"
You nodded, then tilted your head slightly. "I noticed you didn't give me a proper introduction."
He leaned back, eyes never leaving yours. "Ah. Right."
"I'm Alexander. Alexander Volkov." He extended his hand across the table, a glint of playfulness flashing briefly in his gaze. "…But you can call me Alex."
You accepted his hand—but not the name. "Sure, Mr. Alex Volkov."
For the first time that evening, he froze.
A low chuckle escaped him, surprised and unmistakably amused. He withdrew his hand slowly, lifting his wine glass to hide the smile that followed. "First—don't call me 'Mr.'"
He took a measured sip, regaining his composure.
"And second," he continued, thumb unconsciously brushing the rim of his glass, "you can call me Alex or Alexander. But Mr. Volkov?" His eyes darkened slightly. "That's either very formal… or very sexy. Coming from you."
The word you landed with intent.
"May I ask your name?"
You arched a brow. "I guess you already knew my name. Did you forget it that fast?"
A genuine smile spread across his face this time, softening the sharp lines of him. "No. I didn't forget." He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. "I just wanted to hear you say it again."
"So…" He rolled the name slowly on his tongue, tasting it. "Seraphina Vela."
You extended your hand. "Nice, you can call me Sera!
He took your hand firmly—warm, steady—his thumb brushing over your knuckles as if memorizing the feel of you. "Sera," he repeated, softer now. "Pleasure to officially meet you."
He released you reluctantly, reaching again for his wine.
A moment passed. Cutlery clinked somewhere in the distance. The rose between you felt suddenly symbolic.
"So," he said casually, too casually, "no boyfriend, right?"
His eyes drifted—not rudely, but deliberately—taking you in as if assessing a painting he already knew was priceless. "Because a woman like you…"
He took another sip, then caught himself. "I mean—"
You smiled, slow and unreadable.
"Relax," you said. "You're terrible at pretending not to be interested."
He laughed quietly, surrendering the act. "I don't pretend," he replied. "I choose my moments."
The waiter arrived then, breaking the tension just enough. Orders were placed, but the air between you remained charged—unspoken truths brushing dangerously close to the surface.
As the evening unfolded, conversation slipped easily from guarded banter to unexpected confessions. He spoke of control, of empires built and defended. You spoke of stitches and scars—of healing people who never knew how close they came to breaking.
Opposites, you realized.
And yet, across candlelight and half‑empty wine glasses, it felt less like coincidence… and more like fate clearing its throat.
Outside, the city waited.
Inside, something had already begun to unravel.