Chapter Eight: Dinner with Dangerously Handsome Men Should Be Illegal
Celia had prepared for dinner with Prince the same way she prepared for exams in her past life:
• Step one: panic.
• Step two: pray.
• Step three: wing it and hope she didn't die.
She assumed dinner meant a normal restaurant. Maybe Italian. Maybe some sushi. Worst case, a fancy hotel buffet where she could at least drown her awkwardness in unlimited dessert.
She was wrong.
So, so wrong.
Prince's driver pulled up to a glass tower lit like a crown jewel in the middle of the city. The sign at the entrance read L'Éternité.
Celia blinked. Oh, fantastic. French. My worst subject.
Inside, chandeliers dripped light like melted diamonds. Waiters glided across the floor like ballet dancers, whispering menus in accents that made her feel like she'd failed at life just by existing.
Prince, of course, looked like he belonged here. Dark suit, clean lines, posture that screamed I own this building, maybe the city too.
Celia? She felt like she'd snuck in through the service entrance with a stolen dress.
"Why are we here?" she hissed as Prince offered her a seat.
"Because I was hungry," he said casually, as if this wasn't the kind of place where water probably cost more than her old rent.
The menu landed in her hands. One look at it and she wanted to cry.
Foie gras… truffle risotto… escargot…
She didn't even know what an escargot was, but it sounded suspiciously like something that slithered.
Prince glanced up from his menu, smirking slightly. "Don't tell me you're overwhelmed."
Celia straightened. "Me? Please. I eat… foie whatever all the time."
He leaned forward. "Then order."
Celia broke into a sweat. Her broke-girl instincts screamed at her to pick the cheapest item, but there was no price listed. Which meant everything was "if you have to ask, you can't afford it."
Panic rising, she blurted the first thing she recognized. "Spaghetti."
The waiter blinked. "You mean… the truffle-infused tagliatelle with saffron cream reduction?"
Celia nodded like she'd just won a Nobel Prize. "Exactly that."
Prince's eyes glinted with amusement.
Oh God, she thought. He knows I'm faking it.
⸻
The food arrived, and of course, it was art on a plate. Her "spaghetti" portion could fit in a thimble. She stared at it in despair.
"This," she muttered, "is why people die hungry."
Prince chuckled. Actually chuckled. "Don't tell me you expected a mountain of pasta."
"Well excuse me for thinking dinner means food," she shot back. "This is… this is decorative carbs."
He covered his mouth with his hand, but the laugh slipped out anyway. A real laugh this time, warm and rich, like dark chocolate.
Celia's heart betrayed her with an unhelpful thump.
"Beverly," he said, still smiling, "you're… different tonight."
She stabbed her fork into the microscopic pasta. "Good different or mental asylum different?"
"Good," he admitted softly. "Unexpected. But good."
Her throat tightened. She looked away quickly, pretending to study the chandelier. No. Nope. We are not catching feelings for this man. Abort.
⸻
Halfway through dinner, Prince leaned back in his chair, watching her carefully.
"So," he said, "what changed? You used to be…" He hesitated. "Colder."
Celia froze.
Say something. Anything.
"Global warming," she blurted.
He blinked. "…What?"
"Global warming," she repeated, waving her fork like a lecturer. "It's melting the ice caps. Clearly it also melted me."
There was a long pause. Then, unexpectedly, Prince burst out laughing. Not a polite chuckle, not a smirk — a full, unguarded laugh that drew stares from the tables around them.
Celia sat frozen. Her brain whispered: Oh no. He's even hotter when he laughs.
When he finally calmed, he leaned closer, voice low. "I don't know what's gotten into you, Beverly… but don't stop."
Celia's stomach flipped. She shoved more pasta into her mouth to avoid answering.
⸻
By dessert (a single chocolate cube on a plate the size of a steering wheel), Celia was questioning all her life choices.
Prince, on the other hand, looked completely at ease. Too at ease. Like he was peeling back layers she didn't even know she had.
And then he dropped it.
"I heard about Vanessa," he said casually.
Celia almost choked on the cube. "What about her?"
"She's sniffing around again," he said. "Be careful. That girl has claws."
Celia swallowed hard. As if I didn't notice.
Prince's gaze lingered on her. "If you need help, you know you can come to me."
Her chest tightened. It was too much — the kindness, the steady gaze, the way his voice softened just for her.
She forced a grin. "Thanks, Prince. But don't worry. I bite back."
He raised his glass in a toast. "I'll hold you to that."
And Celia?
She sat there smiling, all while her heart hammered out one undeniable truth:
She was in so much trouble.