Adrian's POV
The moment the door opened, I felt it—
the subtle shift in the air, the faint echo of heels tapping against the polished marble floors.
Sharp, deliberate.
Unhurried.
Confident.
Sound moves differently in an empty restaurant. It stretches… expands… fills the silence like a whispered announcement, and the cadence of her steps was the announcement of something I had been waiting for.
Something I had already claimed in my mind.
Crystal Reed.
My gaze snapped toward the entrance before my body could stop itself. My control rarely slips, but tonight… it did. Only by a fraction. Only because of her. And yes—she was exactly as I expected, yet somehow better.
Not overdressed.
Not pretending.
Not seeking to impress.
I was intrigued.
She walked in wearing black baggy leather pants that hugged her waist before falling loosely over her long legs. The fabric caught the lights overhead, reflecting a dark sheen that matched the quiet fire simmering in my chest.
Her white crop top was simple but distracting—exposing just enough skin to threaten my composure, yet not enough for the world to feast on. A black jacket hung off one shoulder, casual, effortless, irritatingly alluring. She wore a face cap pulled slightly low, her wavy black hair spilling out from beneath it.
Minimal makeup.
Glossed lips.
Neutral-toned eyeshadow.
Skin glowing like she'd been carved for the night.
It wasn't beauty that hooked me. Beauty is common.
It was her defiance—the kind that walked ahead of her like a warning.
She spotted me, paused for half a second, then continued forward like she hadn't felt the way I was already stripping her apart with my eyes.
Her heels clicked again.
Echo.
Echo.
Echo.
She approached the table and slid into the seat opposite me, crossing her legs as if she owned the place.
"You're fifteen minutes late," I said, my voice calm. Controlled. A test.
"I didn't expect you to still be around," she shot back without blinking. "Rich people like you tend to have a lot on their plate."
I felt the corner of my lips twitch.
Feisty.
Unapologetic.
Unintimidated.
She wanted to stand her ground. Good. I wanted to watch her crumble only after she realized resistance was useless.
"Of course I had to stay waiting for you," I replied. "Unless… you conclude otherwise."
Her head tilted slightly. "Conclude otherwise? As how?"
"We're both smart adults," I said evenly. "I'm pretty sure you understood what I meant."
A smirk tugged at her lips at first… then disappeared, replaced by an expression carved from cold precision.
"I don't want to waste your time. So tell me what you want from me."
Sharp. Direct.
She didn't circle. Didn't soften.
Just went straight for the artery.
I admired that.
"Oh, come on," I said lightly. "You just arrived. Order something first."
She raised an eyebrow as if humoring me required effort. "Fine."
I snapped my fingers, and a waiter approached immediately.
White long-sleeved shirt, crisply ironed.
Black trousers perfectly fitted.
A small black bow tie fastened at the collar.
A short apron tied neatly around his waist.
Spine straight. Eyes trained low.
"Menu," I ordered.
The waiter handed it to her, and she took her time—eyes scanning each page with a look that said:
Rich man, prepare to spend.
I leaned back and let her.
When she closed the menu, she lifted her chin toward me in silent challenge. Then she listed her order—five of the most expensive dishes:
1. Grilled Wild Atlantic Lobster with Garlic Butter Reduction
2. Seared Wagyu Strips in Truffle Oil
3. Saffron Butter Risotto with Gold Flakes
4. Blackened Sea Bass with White Wine Glaze
5. Triple-layered Chocolate Soufflé with Caramel Drip
I didn't flinch.
Her eyes flickered with something—annoyance, maybe disappointment, maybe intrigue—when she saw I wasn't bothered.
Minutes later, the dishes arrived, and she began eating.
Slowly. Elegantly.
Not wasteful.
Not rushing.
She ate like someone who wasn't used to luxury but refused to be intimidated by it.
I watched. I always observe before I strike.
Midway through her meal, she paused and glanced at me. "You're not eating?"
"No."
"Why?"
"The food isn't up to my standard."
Her jaw dropped so fast I nearly laughed. She caught herself, shot me a glare, and muttered:
"Such a lunatic."
I heard it.
I let it sit between us.
It tasted good coming from her lips.
When she finally finished all five dishes—impressively—she wiped her mouth, took a sip of juice, and folded her napkin neatly.
"So now I'm done eating," she said. "What do you want from me?"
I didn't look away.
Didn't blink.
Didn't soften the blow.
"Date me."
Her words stalled on her tongue. "Date you?"
"Yes."
She chuckled—quiet, disbelieving, almost mocking.
"You really think I'll date you?"
"Yes."
"What made you think so?"
"Because you'll benefit from it."
She leaned back, eyes narrowing. "Hm. When I see how 'beneficial' you are, then I'll consider it. For now, my reply is NO."
It didn't bother me.
It didn't even scratch the surface of my patience.
"You can still think about it," I said calmly. "If you change your mind, contact me anytime."
She exhaled sharply, clearly tired of the conversation. "If you insist, then… I'll think about it."
Translation: She won't.
But she will eventually.
She reached for her bag and stood. "I think I've overstayed my welcome. I'll be taking my leave now."
She extended a hand.
I shook it.
"Adrian," I said.
"Crystal. Nice meeting you." Her lips pulled into a small smile. "I really enjoyed the meal, so I'll be the one to treat you next time. But please—try to accept the food… even if it's not up to your standard."
My lips twitched again.
She turned and walked away, her heels echoing behind her.
I watched her until she disappeared past the glass doors, my fingers still tingling from the warmth of her handshake.
A slow smile unfurled on my lips.
"What a pleasant encounter," I murmured to myself.