Mary Louise Emerson

The rest of the drive passes beneath a charged silence, Luxen sliding by outside the tinted windows until the town car pulls to a smooth stop in front of an unassuming yet undeniably exclusive restaurant. The surrounding street is quiet, deliberately so—a place meant for clientele who value discretion over spectacle.

As the driver opens the door, Xander exits first, cool evening air spilling into the car in his wake. By the time he turns and offers his hand, his expression is composed once more.

Alaura grabs her purse and places her hand in his, meeting the familiar not-quite-human warmth of his skin. The midnight fabric glides over the edge of the seat and falls smoothly around her legs as she rises.

His fingers release hers the moment she finds her footing. That strange distance she felt earlier resurfaces, subtle but unmistakable.

The restaurant offers a welcome distraction. As they approach, its peculiarities become more noticeable.

Only one visible entrance, no visible windows, and no obvious signs to indicate what lies within. Its purposely understated exterior blends into the city’s background as an old, forgotten workshop. A single gold crest is embedded above the doorway.

Clearly no ordinary place, and not one discovered by accident.

Xander takes hold of the iron handle and opens the lone door, holding it for Alaura to enter into the dim, intimate foyer. Sleek black marble stretches beneath her heels, its soft gleam suggests luxury without ostentation.

With a muted thud, the door closes behind him, sealing out the evening chill. His tall frame occupies the space beside her.

Together, they continue under recessed lights set in smoked glass. A subdued amber radiance spreads across textured matte-black walls edged with delicate gold inlays. Sparse artwork lines their path in decorated gold frames—pieces that don’t demand attention but speak volumes to those who understand their worth.

This place doesn’t flaunt its wealth.

It whispers it.

At the far end of the entrance hall, a reception desk gradually comes into view, carved from dark, lacquered ebony and trimmed in gold. A single lamp illuminates one corner, where a silver-tipped fountain pen rests atop a leather-bound ledger.

The air changes as they near reception. Rich spices. Aged wine. A shaper note, almost metallic. The woman stationed there looks up, her posture straightening the moment she sees Xander.

This is not lost on Alaura.

“Good evening, Mr. Aurelian. Your table is ready,” the hostess greets them, her voice measured and formal.

Alaura’s gaze flicks toward him.

Aurelian.

Alexander Aurelian.

She says nothing, committing his name to memory.

Leaving her post, the hostess reaches for Alaura’s coat with a slight bow, as if dining beside him alone establishes her importance, then disappears into a closet on the left.

Upon her return, she gives a polite nod and gestures toward a narrow opening framed by two heavy black pillars, concealed behind a burgundy curtain.

“This way,” she says softly, holding the heavy curtain aside as Alaura and Xander follow her through.

Immediately, Alaura understands.

This isn’t a restaurant. It’s a place for private conversations, things that should never be overheard, dealings that should never see the light of day.

No open dining room. No rows of tables, ambient music, or causal chatter. Instead, a long corridor stretches before them like a gallery of velvet secrets. Tall, semicircular arches line either side, each veiled behind a curtain, the same as the one they just passed though, their dense folds muffling whatever transpires within.

Private alcoves, utterly cut off from view.

Gold sconces pass in measured intervals as they walk, their flame-shaped bulbs casting restless light across smooth black walls. Deep merlot carpet cushions Alaura’s heels, swallowing each click.

Further down the passage, Alaura notices each chamber is empty, their curtains gathered aside to reveal untouched place settings and vacant chairs. Only the staff move through their openings.

Beside her, Xander appears completely at ease, a creature of power and etiquette who belongs in this world. Even in motion, he carries that impossible stillness, entirely at home in a place governed by discretion.

She’s unsure whether she’s intrigued or terrified by this place. But its purpose becomes clearer with every step. This is not a sanctuary for the merely wealthy, but the elite, the unseen players behind true influence. People who never brag about the hand they’re dealt because they already hold all the cards.

And Xander has chosen it for their date.

Why?

As the question echoes in her mind, a waiter slips through a swinging service door ahead, releasing a brief wash of stark white light and heat into the dim passage.

Through the opening, Alaura catches a partial glimpse of the kitchen—stainless-steel counters, white-clad figures moving between them, steam curling beneath the harsh overhead lights. Beyond the activity, an unmarked metal door sits in the far wall, a horizontal push bar gleaming across its center.

A few feet before the kitchen, the woman stops at the final alcove. More secluded than the others. Tucked into the far end of the restaurant.

The soft rustle of fabric pulls Alaura’s attention forward as the woman parts the curtain, revealing their private chamber.

Xander lifts a hand, angling his fingers in a subtle motion toward the opening—a command cloaked in an invitation. Alaura accepts with confidence and enters ahead of him.

Behind her, the hostess murmurs something too low to catch. Xander’s response is even quieter.

For a moment, the room belongs to her alone, allowing her to take in the space where she stands.

There are no windows. No mirrors. Nothing offering a view beyond the curtain at her back.

The walls are no different—matte black and unnervingly smooth. Ornate sconces cast flickering light in isolated pools, leaving the corners untouched. A small brass hook near the entrance gleams.

Beneath her feet, the same wine-red carpet offers softness but does little to feel welcoming.

Along one wall sits a plush maroon couch, inviting and completely out of place amid the formality. Some where to retreat or, perhaps,  to watch.

Beside it, a small serving cart holds a bottle of wine, several decanters of dark liquor, and crystal tumblers waiting to be filled.

At the center stands a small, intimate table, its square surface dressed in a pristine black tablecloth. Fine bone-white china edged in gold. Polished silverware resting on folded garnet linen. Crystal stemware gathers the firelight from two candles and fractures it like starlight.

But what dominates the setting are two large, throne-like structures upholstered in decadent crimson velvet. Their scale could transform those seated within them into rulers or prisoners—depending on who holds the power. An illusion of intimacy…or isolation.

Drawn to the nearest chair, her fingers trace the intricately stitched patterns. It’s soft—almost too soft, like something intended to coax her into letting her guard down.

After the exchange ends, Xander enters, the curtain falls closed at his back. As Xander approaches, the distance between them disappears, stopping just behind her chair. His fingers sink into the fabric before drawing it away from the table.

Alaura turns to face him, the slight curve of her lips offers her thanks. Back straight, she lowers herself, adjusting the fall of her dress across her knees, then places her purse in her lap.

He guides her chair closer to the table, then circles the table, taking the chair opposite hers.

For a beat, neither of them speaks. The silence between them is strained, but not uncomfortable. A faint frown disrupts Xander’s usual composure. Confusion, perhaps, though his expression offers little else.

Conveying confidence without arrogance, she lifts her menu and takes her time skimming the selections.

That polite, enigmatic smile remains on her lips as she continues reading, not even acknowledging the intensity of his stare along her skin. Examining her every movement, every breath. It no longer affects her.

A few moments later, the curtain parts and a server slips inside, the heavy fabric falling back into place. “Good evening,” the greeting belongs to neither of them in particular, but then his attention settles on Alaura as he asks, “May I start you off with something to drink?”

He doesn’t offer his name, doesn’t ask for theirs. Alaura notices the intentional omission, a practiced formality. One suited to an establishment where privacy isn’t a courtesy but a rule.

A single glance at the wine list next to her place setting is enough to recognize every vintage listed—Barolo, Bordeaux, Syrah aged in obscure châteaus no tourist has ever set foot in. Wines she’s tried in cellars more lavish than this restaurant.

Without consulting it again, she peers up at the server. “What would you recommend?” Her tone suggests there’s only one right answer.

Surprise briefly disturbs his demeanor causing him to pause. “That depends, madam. What kind of body do you prefer?”

Alaura’s lips curve by the slightest degree. “I’d rather know what you prefer.” One perfectly manicured nail taps against her purse, a metronome applying pressure.

“Why would you choose one of these wines over the others?” Another tap. “What makes you want it?”

The question’s not innocent, she’s studying him. Understanding what makes people want things is a skill she’s mastered over the years. People give away more than they realize when they speak about desire.

To his credit, he doesn’t falter. “Then I would suggest the Barolo, madam.” His answer carries greater conviction now. “It’s bold but layered. Complex. Something that lingers long after you’ve tasted it. It’s not easily forgotten.”

Impressed by his response, she tilts her head. “A persuasive statement.” She’s enjoying this. Not merely hearing what people want but making them explain why.

As if still considering, she lets the pause stretch. “I’ll take your recommendation.”

More cautious now, the server clears his throat. “And for your meal, madam?”

“The steak. Medium-rare. Vegetables on the side.” Her choice comes without hesitation.

Turning his attention to Xander, the server asks, “The usual, sir?”

Only then does Alaura look back across the table. His broad shoulders filling the oversized chair, one hand resting beside the untouched menu, focus on Alaura. A hint of delight touches his expression.

At the server’s question, his eyes shift to the man. A glare is all it takes.

The server begins to collect their menus. “Very well. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Before you go, would you mind showing me where the restrooms are?” Her words stop him with the wine list still in hand. Rather than answer, he looks to Xander.

Alaura follows the silent appeal across the table. One brow rises when she meets Xander’s stare, making her answer equally clear. She isn’t asking for permission.

After consideration, he gives the server a single, measured nod.

Only then does the man respond. “Of course, ma’am.”

Holding Xander’s focus, she pushes her chair back and rises. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” She slips the strap of her purse over her shoulder as she follows behind the server.

He pulls the curtain aside and gestures toward the low-lit passage beyond. “Just through there, madam.”

Alaura offers quiet thanks and passes through the opening without looking back.