Page 17
Story: Convenient Vows
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod, hoping I don’t look as breathless as I feel.
He opens the car door himself — not a driver, not a guard. Just him. I slide in, heart racing, barely noticing the smooth leather or the quiet hum of the engine.
The drive is silent, but not awkward. It’s electric.
We pull up outside a five-star restaurant tucked into the side of a luxury hotel — one of those places that doesn’t need a sign because everyone who matters already knows it’s there.
Inside, the maître d’ leads us to a private alcove — dim lighting, rich velvet curtains, a secluded table set for two. No security details, no hovering staff. Just us.
Zasha pulls out my chair with a quiet, assured grace, and we sit.
I clear my throat lightly.
“So… this is unexpected.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“I thought it was important to speak. Without our families.”
His voice is smooth and professional; however, his eyes are sharp and watchful, and he doesn’t miss a thing.
The waiter arrives, placing menus in front of us.
“Have you planned for us to have anything in particular?” I ask, knowing that someone like him would have everything planed to the last detail.
Zasha glances at me. “Order whatever you’d like.”
I scan the options quickly, suppressing a grin.
“The seafood boil platter, please.”
The waiter blinks in surprise but nods.
Zasha lifts a brow.
“Ambitious.”
I smile sweetly.
“I’m hungrier than I look.”
When the dish arrives — a glorious pile of crab legs, shrimp, mussels, and corn dripping with spiced butter — I waste no time rolling up my sleeves. I place the napkin on my lap and don the transparent glove that comes with the meal.
Zasha watches silently as I snap a crab leg with practiced ease, sauce dripping down my covered fingers.
“You’re full of surprises,” he murmurs, amusement flickering at the edge of his mouth.
I glance up, licking butter from my thumb.
“You expected me to pick at a salad?”
“I expected you to pretend to,” he says smoothly.
I laugh softly, warmth bubbling in my chest.
“You have a lot to learn about me, Mr Petrov.”
I nod, hoping I don’t look as breathless as I feel.
He opens the car door himself — not a driver, not a guard. Just him. I slide in, heart racing, barely noticing the smooth leather or the quiet hum of the engine.
The drive is silent, but not awkward. It’s electric.
We pull up outside a five-star restaurant tucked into the side of a luxury hotel — one of those places that doesn’t need a sign because everyone who matters already knows it’s there.
Inside, the maître d’ leads us to a private alcove — dim lighting, rich velvet curtains, a secluded table set for two. No security details, no hovering staff. Just us.
Zasha pulls out my chair with a quiet, assured grace, and we sit.
I clear my throat lightly.
“So… this is unexpected.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“I thought it was important to speak. Without our families.”
His voice is smooth and professional; however, his eyes are sharp and watchful, and he doesn’t miss a thing.
The waiter arrives, placing menus in front of us.
“Have you planned for us to have anything in particular?” I ask, knowing that someone like him would have everything planed to the last detail.
Zasha glances at me. “Order whatever you’d like.”
I scan the options quickly, suppressing a grin.
“The seafood boil platter, please.”
The waiter blinks in surprise but nods.
Zasha lifts a brow.
“Ambitious.”
I smile sweetly.
“I’m hungrier than I look.”
When the dish arrives — a glorious pile of crab legs, shrimp, mussels, and corn dripping with spiced butter — I waste no time rolling up my sleeves. I place the napkin on my lap and don the transparent glove that comes with the meal.
Zasha watches silently as I snap a crab leg with practiced ease, sauce dripping down my covered fingers.
“You’re full of surprises,” he murmurs, amusement flickering at the edge of his mouth.
I glance up, licking butter from my thumb.
“You expected me to pick at a salad?”
“I expected you to pretend to,” he says smoothly.
I laugh softly, warmth bubbling in my chest.
“You have a lot to learn about me, Mr Petrov.”
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