The familiar purr of my engine felt like a reunion with an old friend, a symphony of regained independence after weeks of frustrating silence. After what felt like a small eternity, I finally had my car back from the mechanic. The accident a few weeks ago—a terrifying screech of metal and a sudden, jarring impact—had left me with only a minor concussion, a phantom headache that lingered for days. But my poor, loyal car had borne the brunt of it, needing a small fortune in repairs that had my bank account weeping. But as I gripped the steering wheel, the leather warm from the sun, I let out a contented sigh. That was all behind me now. I was whole again, mobile again, me again.
Or so I thought, until my phone shattered that fragile peace this morning.
I'd been blissfully scrolling through Zalira's new lookbook, a midday treat with my coffee, when an unknown number flashed on the screen. The voice on the other end was polished and efficient, each syllable clipped with a precision that felt expensive. She claimed to be Mr. Blackwood's assistant. She informed me—not asked, informed me—that Mr. Carlos Blackwood requested my company for dinner tonight. A car would be sent to pick me up at 8:00 PM sharp. The click of the call ending was as final as a judge's gavel.
My first emotion was sheer, unadulterated panic. It clawed its way up my throat, cold and sharp. How did he get my number? My personal cell? And more chillingly, my address? The walls of my cozy apartment suddenly felt paper-thin. What else had I babbled during my champagne-fueled confession on that balcony? Had I divulged my childhood fear of clowns? My secret love for terrible reality TV? The fear was quickly followed by a traitorous, fluttering excitement that bloomed deep in my chest, a nervous, thrilling hum I tried to squash immediately. It was like trying to put out a fire with gasoline.
I was still cringing with the bone-deep embarrassment of our last encounter. He'd rejected me. He'd literally put a firm, warm finger on my lips to stop me from kissing him. The memory was a special kind of humiliation I replayed in my head at 3 AM, a masochistic ritual that made me bury my face in my pillow and groan. Did I have bad breath from that shrimp cocktail? Had the one-too-many cocktails made me seem desperate, pathetic? And the way he'd sucked his finger after it had been on my mouth… the thought alone sent a wildfire of heat across my cheeks and down my neck. It was the most confusing, intimate gesture I'd ever experienced.
So why, despite all this logical, self-preserving terror, was I now standing in front of my closet, mentally planning a frantic shopping trip for a new dress? My brain and my heart were clearly not on speaking terms, locked in a cold war where my heart had just launched a nuclear missile.
There was also the heavy, unresolved weight of Killian, a stone of guilt in my stomach. I still hadn't told Maya what I'd walked in on—the sight of her boyfriend, my friend, with his tongue down some blonde's throat in a darkened corner of the charity gala. I'd chickened out last night, claiming fatigue, but today, when we meet up under the guise of finding me a dress for a date, I would have to tell her. The irony was a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth.
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"Let me get this straight," Maya said, her voice a mixture of disbelief and sheer delight. She held up a stunning cobalt blue dress against me, her critical eye appraising the fit. "You're telling me that the man who rejected you on a balcony after you basically threw yourself at him now has his assistant summoning you to a date? Hannah, the plot thickens faster than my grandma's gravy."
We were in the serene, air-conditioned bliss of a high-end boutique I usually only entered to admire from a distance. The carpet was plush, the lighting was forgiving, and the sales associates moved with a silent, unhurried grace. After spilling the entire story—the imperious phone call, the gut-wrenching panic, the unwelcome thrill—I'd tasked her with helping me find the perfect armor for tonight. I needed to feel untouchable.
"He's not summoning me," I argued weakly, my gaze snagging on a breathtaking burgundy dress in her other hand. "It's… a formal invitation."
"Uh-huh. And did this 'invitation' have an RSVP option? A little box to check for 'regretfully decline'? Or was it a royal decree?" she teased, a knowing glint in her eye. It was so good to see her smiling, so carefree and focused on my drama, even if it was at my expense. I felt a fresh, sharp pang of guilt; her smile would likely vanish after our next conversation. The secret felt like a live wire in my purse.
"It was decidedly light on options," I admitted, running my fingers over the silk of the burgundy dress. It felt like cool water.
In the end, I couldn't decide. Both dresses were perfect in their own ways. So, I did the only logical, completely illogical thing for my budget: I bought both. The swipe of my credit card was accompanied by a silent scream, but also a surge of empowerment. This was for me.
The first was a dazzling electric blue, an off-the-shoulder mini dress with long, tight sleeves and a daring, plunging open back. A subtle slit high on the thigh promised a hint of leg with every step I took—confident, bold, a little rebellious. The second was a deep, wine-red burgundy strapless number, a sleek column of heavy silk that hugged every curve like it was made for me. It was sophisticated, sensual, and silent.
Standing in my bedroom later that evening, the golden hour light casting long shadows, I held them both up against my body in the full-length mirror. The blue was a statement. It shouted, Look at me, I'm fearless. The burgundy was a confession. It whispered, I know my own power. After a internal battle that involved three outfit changes, I chose the confession.
I slipped into the fitted burgundy dress, the silk whispering against my skin as I zipped it up. It was a risk—so form-fitting, so reliant on good posture and core strength—but one I felt powerful taking. I kept my makeup light and dewy, but went all out on the lips, meticulously recreating the plump, glossy Bratz lip combo that had served me so well before. I pulled my auburn hair into a severe, sleek ponytail that sharpened my cheekbones and highlighted the simple elegance of my gold hoop earrings and a delicate, matching necklace. A slim, elegant gold watch adorned my wrist, and I finished with a few spritzes of my favorite perfume—Jo Malone Wood Sage & Sea Salt. It was expensive, but thankfully not 'Blackwood Foundation' expensive, a small piece of my own world I could carry with me.
The dress made my ass look incredible, a fact I acknowledged with a mix of pride and sheer panic, realizing I really, truly shouldn't have skipped my last five Pilates classes.
For my bag, I chose a small, structured Saint Laurent Cassandra bag in black with a gold chain strap—chic, timeless, and just the right size to hold my essentials: phone, keys, lip gloss, and a travel-sized version of my perfume, a tiny anchor to my own reality.
My phone buzzed, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense quiet of my bedroom. A text from another unknown number. The driver is here.
Taking a deep, steadying breath that was supposed to calm my nerves but did nothing for the frantic butterfly migration in my stomach, I gave myself one last look in the mirror. The woman staring back was polished, put-together, and radiating a cool confidence I didn't quite feel. But my eyes held a determined glint. I was ready to face him.
I grabbed my purse, the chain strap cool in my hand, and headed out the door, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm that was equal parts terror and thrilling anticipation.
Stepping out of my apartment building felt like stepping onto a movie set, the familiar cracked pavement of my street suddenly looking shabby under the glare of this new production. Idling at the curb were two cars—no, not cars, statements. The one in front was a sleek, obsidian-black Rolls-Royce, so profoundly polished it seemed to swallow the light from the streetlamps, reflecting a distorted, warped version of my building. Behind it was a matching black SUV with dark, impenetrable windows, a hulking silhouette of pure security. The bodyguard car. The reality of who Carlos Blackwood was, the world he inhabited, hit me all over again, sending a fresh jolt of electric nerves through my system.
I felt a little awkward, fumbling with my keys to lock the main door, hyper-aware of the two figures standing sentinel by the Rolls-Royce. As I approached, one of the bodyguards—dressed in a crisply tailored black suit and sunglasses even though the sun had long since set—opened the rear passenger door with a silent, efficient grace that spoke of intense training.
"Good evening, Ms. Reynolds," he said, his voice a neutral, unplaceable baritone.
He knows my name. Of course, he did. They knew my address; why wouldn't they know my name? I managed a small, tight-lipped smile, hoping it conveyed a cool composure I was miles from feeling. "Good evening."
I slid into the interior, which was a sanctuary of quiet luxury. The seats were butter-soft cream leather that seemed to embrace me, and the air smelled faintly of cedar, leather, and clean, undeniable money. The door closed with a hushed, solid thud, sealing me in from the outside world. The bodyguard took his place in the passenger seat next to the driver, and we pulled away from the curb with a whisper-quiet purr that was somehow more intimidating than a roar.
The moment we were moving, gliding through the city like a ghost, I pulled out my phone, my thumbs flying over the screen as I texted Maya.
Me: Okay. I'm in the car. And by car, I mean I think I'm in a vehicle that costs more than my entire life savings, including my hypothetical future inheritance. There are two of them. The second one is for his bodyguards. Who is this guy??
Maya: BODYGUARDS?!?! Send pics!!!! Is there champagne in there?? Check the mini-fridge! You HAVE to!
Me: No pics, I'd die of embarrassment. It's all very quiet and serious. And yes, there's a chilled bottle in a holder but I'm too scared to touch it. What if I spill??? I'd have to fling myself from the moving vehicle.
Maya: SPILL IT! That's what it's there for! Live a little, Hannah Banana! This is what main characters do! They drink the fancy champagne! Okay, keep me updated. I'm dying over here. And remember, you look HOT.
I spent the rest of the ride trying to calm my racing heart, watching the familiar storefronts and cafes of my neighborhood blur and morph into the glittering, high-rise canyons of a part of town I rarely had reason to visit, a district of silent, imposing doors and valet stands.
We finally stopped in front of a discreet, unmarked building made of dark, polished stone and sleek, burnished metal. The only indication of what it was, was a single, stylized 'V' etched almost invisibly into the wall beside a heavy, seamless door. The bodyguard opened my door and escorted me to the entrance, which was opened by a host who looked like he'd been sculpted and bred for this sole purpose, his expression one of serene welcome.
"Ms. Reynolds," he greeted with a slight, respectful bow of his head. "Mr. Blackwood is awaiting you. Right this way."
I wasn't asked for my name or confirmation. I was simply swept inside. And that's when I stopped breathing.
I'd heard whispers of restaurants like this—places like Vesper, a name spoken in hushed, reverent tones in the circles my job at Zalira barely grazed. It was the kind of place you needed to book months, sometimes years, in advance. A once-in-a-lifetime culinary experience whispered about in food blogs and society columns.
But none of the rumors, none of the breathless reviews, included it being empty.
The room was vast and breathtaking. Soaring ceilings were held up by minimalist arches of pale stone, and one entire wall was a cascading living garden, a vertical tapestry dripping with rare orchids and trailing jade ivy. The tables were widely spaced, islands of privacy draped in linen so white it seemed to glow under the soft, artful lighting. Each table was set with crystal that caught the light like scattered diamonds and silver that looked heavy and antique. The air was filled with the gentle, melancholic sound of a solo pianist playing a soft jazz standard in the far corner, the notes weaving through the silence.
And every single, pristine table was unoccupied. Not a soul, save for the staff standing at respectful attention, their eyes averted.
My heels clicked softly on the polished marble floor, the sound echoing in the cavernous, silent room. It was beautiful, yes, but it was also incredibly, overwhelmingly intimidating. He hadn't just booked a table; he'd booked the entire restaurant. For us. The sheer financial audacity of it was a physical force, pressing in on me.
My social anxiety spiked, a frantic bird beating its wings against my ribs. What was the protocol for this? Do you acknowledge the sheer insanity of it? "Lovely weather for a private buy-out of the city's most exclusive restaurant, isn't it?" Or do you just pretend it's perfectly normal to have a world-class restaurant, its entire legendary kitchen staff, and a live pianist as your private backdrop for a Tuesday night dinner?
I was so wrapped up in my own shock, in the sheer sensory overload of the empty grandeur, that I almost didn't notice the lone figure rising from a table positioned directly in front of the living wall, as if he were the master of this green, growing kingdom.
Carlos Blackwood.
He was wearing a dark, impeccably fitted suit that wasn't just black, but a deep shade of midnight that made his eyes look even icier and more piercing than I remembered. He was watching me, his gaze tracking my every step, taking in my wide-eyed absorption of the surreal scene he'd orchestrated. A small, amused smile played on his lips, a subtle curve that held a universe of knowledge. He had, without a doubt, been waiting for this exact reaction.
And in that moment, as his cool blue eyes met mine across the acres of empty tables, I knew with absolute certainty that this night was either going to be the most spectacular of my life, or the most terrifying.
Probably, undeniably, both.