Page 6 of Eat Slay Love

Chapter four

The Answer

Rae

Keeping my pace with me, he lifted his gaze to my eyes. "What’s your answer, Ms. Harris?"

If Laila had been here, she would have screamed, “Bitch!!! Of course you are going to spend this date with him!”

However, tonight was supposed to be about owning myself. At least that was the excuse I was giving my shivering heart as I walked forward.

Mr. Lyon kept my pace and remained patient, but I could also tell that he was thinking of possible counterarguments just in case I said no.

Girl. . .you’re scared. Aren’t you? Just admit it.

I had spent my entire life not being chosen.

Especially not by men like him—one that looked like sin in a suit and watched me like I was something they’d been waiting for their entire life.

Not by men who had the power to make any woman in the world melt at their feet.

And here I was with one of those men standing next to me, waiting for my answer like I was the only one who mattered.

And even crazier, now that I was being chosen, my mind still struggled to believe it.

My heart knew I was worthy. I had spent these past months convincing my heart that I was deserving of love, of romance, of being seen.

But my mind?

Unfortunately, I think my mind was still lagging behind.

It was still the younger version of me—the dark chubby girl with barrette plaits— who had spent her childhood watching smaller girls get picked first, who had overheard adults murmur about her weight when they thought she couldn’t hear them, who had trained herself to believe that love—real, thrilling, all-consuming love—was for other people.

But never for her.

Not for girls who took up space.

Not for girls who had been told to shrink their entire lives.

And now here I was, no longer that girl.

I was a grown-ass woman who was currently fighting to love herself, who had walked into this night knowing she deserved magic, romance, something unforgettable.

And yet, in this one moment of being truly seen, I still had to convince my own damn mind to let me have it.

Shit.

Because if I said no right now. . .it wouldn’t be because I didn’t want him.

It wouldn’t be because of society’s beauty standards.

It wouldn’t be because of my weight.

It wouldn’t be because men like Mr. Lyon didn’t want women like me.

It would be ME.

Me holding myself back.

Me blocking myself from joy.

If I said no, I wouldn’t be able to blame a thousand things—magazine covers, dating apps, men who made cruel jokes, childhood wounds that still stung in my quietest moments.

Tonight, the only thing standing between me and a night of possibility was my own self-doubt.

My fear.

My hesitation to believe that I could step into the kind of life I had always wanted.

I shivered, and my therapist’s words came rushing back.

"At young ages, we are programmed with negative self-talk. We don’t come into this world believing we are too much.

We are taught to believe it. And your path to success isn’t waiting for that voice to disappear—it’s pushing through it.

It’s breaking it away, piece by piece. It’s realizing that fear doesn’t have to be a stop sign.

It can just be a mile marker on the way to something great. "

I breathed in deep, feeling the heaviness of that truth settle into my bones.

I had two choices.

I could say no, walk away, and spend my entire life wondering what would have happened if I had just let myself step into the magic waiting for me.

Or I could say yes.

Yes, to him.

Yes, to this night.

Yes, to the version of me who wasn’t afraid to take up space, to be seen, to be wanted.

Yes, to the woman I had spent so many years becoming.

Alright then. . .that’s settled.

So I straightened my spine, turned to him, and tilted my head. A wicked smirk teased the corners of my lips. "If I say yes. . .what happens next?"

He exhaled slowly, like I’d just handed him a wrapped gift and he wanted to savor the moment before he tore it open.

Then, he leaned in.

Not enough to touch, but enough to fill every inch of space between us with his heat, his presence, his scent.

His voice was low, deep, sinful. "You’ll find out."

My pulse skipped.

"But I promise, Ms. Harris, you won’t regret it."

Mmmm.

I wet my lips, mouth suddenly dry, body suddenly too warm.

A decision sat on the tip of my tongue, one I had already made before I even asked the damn question.

I lifted my chin and met his gaze head-on. "Then, yes. Let’s enjoy this dinner together."

And in that moment, something shifted. His entire body visibly relaxed, but somehow, his intensity doubled and his eyes darkened, glimmering with something a little unholy.

"Good," he murmured.

And then. . .the tunnel ahead of us began to open.

A new space, glowing with golden light, unfolding like a secret being revealed.

And just like that, the experience truly began.

I stepped into pure decadence.

This dining space was stunning, as if someone had plucked it straight from a fantasy.

Golden candlelight flickered from massive crystal chandeliers, casting a soft glow over plush velvet seating and towering floral arrangements.

The scent of roses, vanilla, and spices curled through the air, warm and intoxicating.

And the tables—only ten of them in the entire space—were arranged for intimacy.

One couple per table.

No excess.

No distractions.

Only the person in front of you.

I should have expected it, but still, my stomach flipped when I saw our table.

The other couples were already seated.

Cosmo appeared in front of us.

“Here you go.” He walked off, and we followed.

Soon, Cosmo stopped us at one table, as if he’d already heard our conversation or at least sensed the inevitable outcome of this moment.

I turned my gaze to the table and my breath caught in my throat.

It wasn’t just a table. Beneath the sleek glass surface, an entire living world thrived.

An aquarium.

Soft, ethereal light pulsed from within, illuminating a vibrant underwater landscape of coral, delicate anemones, and slow-moving, hypnotic fish that shimmered in deep blues, golds, and iridescent pinks.

The water was impossibly clear, giving the illusion that the creatures inside were floating in air rather than water.

Suspended in an infinite dream.

A school of tiny turquoise fish darted across the center.

A pair of butterflyfish—one the color of burning embers, the other as white as moonlight—circled each other in an intimate dance.

And at the very center, a single betta fish, dark crimson with a sweeping tail like fine silk, glided slowly through the water.

The entire thing was mesmerizing, surreal, and quietly breathtaking.

But then I noticed something else.

Two seats.

Positioned right next to each other.

Super close.

A deliberate lack of distance.

At first, I hesitated, taken aback by this unexpected arrangement.

But then I saw Mr. Lyon’s eyes, dancing with mischief, and I swallowed the nervous lump in my throat.

My heart pounded with the exhilaration of stepping outside my comfort zone.

Mr. Lyon gestured toward the chairs. "Shall we?"

With a deep breath, I nodded and we moved towards our seats together.

He pulled out the chair for me—a classic gesture that had my heart fluttering in my chest.

“Thank you.” I took my seat next to him, close enough to feel the warmth from his body radiating against mine.

All around us were couples—entranced by each other, oblivious to everything else.

Yet, the intimacy of our positions made everything else fade away.

Suddenly it was just me and him.

In this shared dream, nothing else mattered; no one else existed.

He turned to me, and his green eyes reflected the vibrant colors from the aquarium below. They were a world unto themselves, and I found myself entranced by their depths.

He gestured to our table. “Do you like this?”

“It’s incredible.”

“It is.”

The waitress approached our table with two glasses, tall and elegant, encased in swirling smoke that curled around the rims like a spell being cast.

I sat forward, intrigued, watching the way the light caught the mist, shifting it into soft ribbons of white.

“Good evening.” She set the glasses down in front of us.

I took her in.

She was stunning—deep brown skin, high cheekbones, and a confident smirk that said she’d seen it all. Her sleek black uniform fit like a second skin, and her short, coiled curls framed her face like a halo.

I liked her already.

"This is our first-course pairing, an exclusive cocktail that only exists within these walls.

" She held her hands out. "It’s called The Golden Mirage. Infused with aged Louis XIII cognac, saffron honey, Tahitian vanilla, and just a hint of smoked cinnamon, it’s meant to awaken the senses—warmth, depth, a little bit of magic. "

I blinked. "Did you say Louis XIII?"

She smirked. "Oh yeah. That’s about five grand a bottle. So, don’t waste a drop."

My eyes widened. "Oh, I wasn’t planning on it."

She chuckled. "It also has edible gold flakes, a hint of passionfruit puree, and a little touch of bergamot to round out the experience. Stir it gently before you sip. Let it coat your tongue."

Mr. Lyon nodded. "Very impressive."

She gave him a look. "I know, right? You’re about to drink a car payment."

I laughed, and she winked before giving us both a little nod. "Enjoy, you two."

And with that, she sauntered off, leaving me staring at the ridiculously expensive drink in front of me.

He reached for his first, picking up the stem between two fingers before swirling it lightly. The golden flakes inside caught the candlelight, swirling like tiny stars suspended in amber.

Next, he lifted the glass to his lips, took a slow sip, and then gave a single approving nod. "Impressive."

I lifted my own glass, watching the smoke curl away as I brought it to my lips.

And then. . .

Oh.

Warmth.

Depth.

A perfect balance of rich, golden honey and smooth vanilla, kissed with the faintest whisper of spice.

Damn.

It rolled over my tongue like liquid silk, coating every inch of my mouth in something so decadent, so indulgent, that I nearly moaned.

I lowered the glass and exhaled. "That is dangerous ."

His lips curled. "Good dangerous?"

"I’m not sure." I laughed softly. "It’s. . .luxury in a glass. It tastes like a stack of money and reckless decisions."

He chuckled, swirling his drink again. "And which one of those do you plan to have tonight?"

I smirked. "A little of both, maybe."

Lust blazed in his gaze before he leaned back in his chair, studying me over the rim of his glass. "You’re not from New York."

I smirked. "Neither are you."

"I’m from Paris."

"I figured."

"And where are you from?"

"I’m a Southern California girl."

"Aww. Very interesting."

I snorted. "Is it?"

"Very much." His gaze swept lazily over me. "That’s where the glow is coming from on your breathtaking skin. It must be all the sun."

Heat licked at my cheeks, but I rolled my eyes playfully. "Are you always this smooth?"

He winked. “It’s a French thing.”

“Aww.”

“Sorry, that your American men lack it.”

“Wow. At least the French are humble.”

“I don’t think that word is even in our dictionary.”

I chuckled.

He took another sip and then casually asked, "Are you a surfer?"

I actually laughed out loud. "Is that what you think of all California girls?"

"Of course." He playfully shrugged. "Fun in the sun, roller skates, beaches, and perfect tans."

I snickered. "Wow. So. . .you’ve never been to California?"

"Never. But now, I have an interesting reason to visit."

My heart warmed. "Yeah. . .you do."

For a moment, we just looked at each other.

I took another slow sip of my drink, my mind wandering—not just to the way he looked, or the way he watched me, but to the mystery of him.

Why was a man like this here, alone?

Why did it feel like he had a secret tucked between every breath, every gaze, every careful word?

Before I could ask, he set his glass down and lifted his eyes to mine. "What is your first name, Ms. Harris?"

"Rae." I watched him. "What’s yours?"

He paused, then exhaled, as if considering his answer. Then, smoothly, he lowered his voice like it was a huge secret, "Fabien."

I tested it in my head—Fah-BYEN.

It fit him.

But then he lifted a single finger. "Please, do not tell anyone here that is my name."

I blinked. "Why not?"

"It is a secret."

I frowned. "A secret?”

“Yes. As far as this restaurant knows. . .my name is Hugo Lyon."

“But. . .it’s not?”

“It’s not.”

What the fuck?

I set the glass down. "So. . .what’s your real last name?"

"LaCrocq."

The pronunciation rolled off his tongue with a lazy, velvety richness—Lah-KROH.

My pulse jumped.

That sounded very old-money French.

But. . .why does he have a fake name?

And suddenly, something in my gut twisted.

I had no idea who I was actually sitting with.

My heart thumped as I leaned back just slightly, the realization washing over me like ice water.

Was this man crazy?

Or worse. . .

Was he married?

Because it was all too good to be true.

A devastatingly gorgeous Frenchman, alone on Valentine’s Day in the most exclusive restaurant in New York, choosing to spend his time with me ?

My inner alarms started buzzing.

And Fabien must have sensed it because he smiled—a slow, knowing, devastatingly amused smile.

I swallowed. "So then. . .why did you give the restaurant a different name?"

He leaned my way, coming too dangerously close in a way that set my body on fire. And that lush cologne of his wrapped around my senses. "Rae.”

The way he said my name. . .well. . .it freaking made my pussy jump for the third time tonight.

Girl, you need to calm down. This man might be crazy.

I kept my gaze on him, even though he was so close I could fucking kiss him. In fact. . .I desperately wanted to kiss him. “Yes, Fabien?”

“Do you promise to keep a secret?"

I hesitated.

Then, slowly, I nodded. "Yes."

A flicker of mischief passed through his gaze.

And then, without another word, he slipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and slowly opened it.

My stomach twisted, and anticipation crackled through my body.

And all I could think was. . .

What the hell is he about to show me?