4. Adrian
4
ADRIAN
I tap my phone screen, refreshing Maya’s Instagram feed for the hundredth time this week. Her latest post shows her favorite Vietnamese restaurant, which she visits every Wednesday at precisely twelve forty-five p.m. The pho is garnished with fresh herbs. My little critic has excellent taste.
Her scathing review of my Valentine’s collection sits open in another tab. Most critics shower me with praise, desperate to stay in my good graces. But Maya? She cut straight through the artifice.
“While technically flawless, Vale’s latest offerings lack the emotional depth his reputation promises. The craftsmanship cannot mask an underlying hollowness...”
A smile tugs at my lips. She’s the first person to sense the death I pour into each piece.
I’ve watched her all week—her morning coffee runs, weekend farmers market visit, and late nights at her desk typing away. She lives alone in a brownstone off Lincoln Park, practices yoga on her rooftop at sunrise, and drinks too much wine while writing reviews.
My phone buzzes. Another food critic begging for an advanced taste of next month’s collection. Delete. They’re all the same—praising mediocrity for access and free samples. But Maya... she risked her career to tell the truth.
I scroll through her previous reviews. She’s ruthless when deserved and glowing when earned. There are no compromises, no politics, just pure, honest reactions to what crosses her talented palate.
In my workshop, I’ve already begun crafting new pieces. Special ones, just for her. The usual ingredients won’t do. She deserves something more... profound. Something that will make her understand the void she so accurately detected.
I park my Bentley a block from Maya’s favorite café, adjusting my suit jacket. As I venture down the tree-lined street, the early autumn air carries the scent of fallen leaves and espresso.
Through the café window, I spot Maya and Amelia at their usual corner table. Maya cradles her coffee mug, her dark hair falling forward as she leans in to share something with her friend. Amelia’s artistic nature shows in her paint-stained fingers and the casual disarray of her clothes—a stark contrast to Maya’s polished appearance.
I check my watch. Five-fifteen p.m. Right on schedule.
The bell chimes as I push open the door. The barista’s eyes widen in recognition—I’ve ensured my face is well-known in Chicago’s culinary circles.
“Mr. Vale! What an honor. Your usual?”
“Just an Americano today.” I keep my voice low and measured.
Maya’s head snaps up at the sound of my name. Her fingers tighten around her mug, and a slight flush colors her cheeks. Amelia notices her friend’s reaction and turns to look at me.
I pretend not to notice them while waiting for my coffee, though I can feel Maya’s gaze burning into me. The tension in the air thickens with each passing second.
“One Americano,” the barista calls out.
I collect my drink and turn, allowing my eyes to meet Maya’s for the first time. Recognition flickers across her face, followed by something else—curiosity with a dash of apprehension. Perfect.
“Ms. Kendall.” I nod in her direction. “What a pleasant surprise.”
I approach their table, coffee in hand. Maya’s fingers drum against her mug—a nervous tell I’ve observed during my surveillance. Her friend Amelia straightens, protective instincts kicking in.
“Mind if I join you?” I signal the empty chair. “I’ve been hoping to discuss your... illuminating review.”
Maya’s cheeks flush deeper. She shifts in her seat, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her silk blouse. “Mr. Vale, I?—”
“Please, call me Adrian.” I slide into the chair before she can protest. “It’s refreshing to meet a critic who values honesty over social niceties.”
“I stand by what I wrote.” Her smooth, clipped voice is defiant, and her chin is lifted.
“As you should.” I take a measured sip of coffee, admiring her spirit. “Most critics are too concerned with maintaining their industry connections to risk genuine critique. You, on the other hand...” I let my eyes linger on her face. “You saw something in my work that others missed entirely.”
Amelia clears her throat. “I should get going. Early client meeting tomorrow.” She shoots Maya a questioning look—asking if she’s okay with being left alone with me.
Maya gives a slight nod. “I’ll call you later.”
I watch Amelia gather her things, noting how her gaze lingers slightly on her friend as she pulls on her jacket. She knows something’s off about me, even if she can’t pinpoint what.
Once we’re alone, Maya raises an eyebrow sternly at me. “If you’re here to convince me to retract my review?—”
“Not at all.” I lean forward, closing the distance between us. “I’m here because you’re the first to critique me.”
She makes a cute little scoff sound in her throat. “Am I, indeed?”
“I appreciate honesty, Ms. Kendall.” I inhale her scent—vanilla and cardamom. “Tell me, what exactly did you taste in that final truffle?”
At that, Maya’s pulse quickens at her throat. I’ve hit a nerve with her. Good. The delicate skin over her pulse would yield so beautifully to my blade. “Lust,” she whispers, like her words are a secret. “Like biting into the forbidden apple itself.”
“Fascinating.” I take her words as an invitation and slide my hand across the table, not quite touching hers. Her fingers twitch. “Most people only taste the chocolate, the caramel, perhaps a hint of sea salt. But you...” The need to taste her fear rises in my chest. “You tasted something deeper.”
I lean back, savoring her discomfort. Maya’s fingers twist around her coffee cup, her knuckles white. She wants to ask about the ingredients—I can see the question burning behind those dark eyes—but she hesitates as if voicing it would make real what she suspects.
“You’re wondering about the special ingredient.” I trace the rim of my cup. “The one that gave you such... intense sensations.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows.
“That particular chocolate is exclusive.” I hold her gaze. “I reserve it for a very select clientele.”
“Select?” Her curiosity shines in her eyes.
“Women who intrigue me, Ms. Kendall. And that’s an exceptionally rare occurrence.” I move my hand closer until our fingers almost touch. “Each piece contains something uniquely personal. My own contribution , you might say.”
The flush deepens on her cheeks as understanding dawns. She doesn’t pull away, though her breathing quickens. The knowledge that she’s already consumed part of me sends a thrill of possession through me.
“You marked me.” It’s not a question.
“The moment you put that chocolate to your lips.” I trace a finger along the back of her hand. “You became mine.”
A visible reaction to my declaration courses through her, but she doesn’t withdraw from my touch. “How many others?”
“None that matter anymore.” I’ve disposed of them all, their blood enriching my work. “You’re different. You understand what I create in ways they never could.”
I trace the rim of my coffee cup. “Perhaps I could show you. My boutique is private and intimate. Perfect for a... personal tasting session.”
Her breath catches. The flush spreads down her neck, staining her collarbones pink beneath her blouse. Such lovely skin—it would bruise exquisitely.
“I shouldn’t.” But she stays in place when my fingers graze against hers. Static crackles between us.
“Why not? Aren’t you curious to discover what else I could make you feel?” I lower my voice, watching her pupils dilate. “What other... sensations I could elicit?”
Maya’s tongue darts out to wet her lips. I imagine catching it between my teeth, drawing blood. The metallic taste would complement the chocolate perfectly.
“Your review mentioned something about hollowness.” I curl my fingers around her wrist, feeling her racing pulse. “Let me prove you wrong.”
She stares at where our skin meets, transfixed. I can almost taste her internal struggle—the professional critic warring with baser instincts, the prey sensing the predator but unable to resist its lure.
“One private tasting,” she breathes. “For research purposes.”
I smile, already planning which blades to use. “Of course. Purely professional.”
Professional. The word tastes like a mouthful of soot. There’s nothing professional about what I have planned for Maya Kendall. The way her pulse jumped under my touch, how her breath caught when I mentioned personal tastings—she’s already mine.
I long to see her face as she samples each creation. See those perfect lips part, her eyes close in pleasure. Watch her surrender to the sensations I craft just for her. The chocolate is merely a vehicle for her irrevocable surrender.
“Eight o’clock?” I trace patterns on her wrist. “The boutique will be closed. No interruptions.”
“Eight.” She nods, a faint shake in her voice.
I release her hand and stand, straightening my jacket. “Wear something comfortable.”
Her cheeks grow a deeper shade of red. “Should I bring anything?”
“Just your exceptional palate.” And that delicious vulnerability. “I’ll have everything else prepared.”
I leave her there, still flustered, trying to convince herself this is just research. But we both know better. The electricity between us is unrelated to professional curiosity.
In my boutique, I’ll arrange the perfect selection—dark chocolate ganache that melts on the tongue, pralines that crack between teeth, truffles dusted with gold—each piece designed to seduce her deeper into my world.
No blood tonight. That comes later. For now, I want to watch her struggle against this attraction. Want to see her try to maintain that professional distance even as she surrenders to what I offer.
Eight o’clock can’t come soon enough.