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“Mara.”
“Zasha.”
I open the car door for her without a word, watching as she slides inside with practiced elegance.
When I round to the driver’s side and settle into the seat, the air inside the car is thick with unspoken tension.
Neither of us speaks right away.
But as I grip the steering wheel, pulling smoothly away from the estate, I’m acutely aware — of her perfume, soft and subtle in the small space between us; of the way her hands rest lightly in her lap; of the quick, almost imperceptible rise and fall of her breath.
I tell myself this is just a meal. A step toward solidifying the alliance.
But somewhere deep inside, beneath the cold, rational part of me, a quiet storm is gathering.
And I know.
This isn’t just business anymore.
Not by a long shot.
The restaurant I’ve chosen is tucked into a quiet corner of the city — the kind of place where power brokers come to make deals and where privacy is guaranteed.
No flashy signs. No crowds. Just soft golden light, polished wood, and an air of quiet wealth.
When we step inside, the maître d’ leads us without fuss to a private alcove near the back. Heavy velvet curtains close off the space, dimming the room until it feels like the rest of the world has been carefully shut away.
Mara slides gracefully into her seat across from me. For a moment, she smooths her dress, her fingers fidgeting slightly at the hem. It’s the first crack I’ve seen in her otherwise perfect composure, and for some reason, it hits me like a punch to the chest.
I sit opposite her, motioning briefly to the waiter to bring the menus.
The silence between us hums — not awkward, but taut.
I remind myself: this is a practical dinner. A chance to clarify the arrangement. Set expectations. Nothing more.
Yet, as I glance across the table at her, I can’t help but notice the way the low candlelight catches the soft waves of her hair, the faint flush of color in her cheeks.
She’s more than I expected.
The waiter returns, murmuring politely, and I watch as Mara scans the menu.
Her face lights up suddenly, eyes darting to mine as I tell her that she can order whatever she likes. And she goes ahead to surprise me.
I raise an eyebrow, surprised. “You want the seafood boil?”
She grins. “Absolutely.”
The waiter barely masks his surprise, but he nods, taking the order and retreating.
When the platter arrives — piled high with crab legs, shrimp, mussels, corn, and potatoes swimming in rich, spiced butter — Mara wastes no time.
With a quick flick of her wrists, she rolls up her sleeves, puts on her gloves, leans forward, and digs in with both hands, cracking shells, pulling meat free, licking sauce from her fingers.
I sit back, watching, genuinely caught off guard.
“You’re not what I expected,” I murmur.
She glances up, her eyes glinting playfully. “You thought I’d pick at a salad all night, didn’t you?”