Naomi
When I think about how we started and how far we’ve come, it’s a no-brainer—I know this is where I want to be.
We pull into the parking lot of Chat Noir with time to spare.
Christian is nothing if not punctual, a stickler for structure in his life.
The valet approaches the car, and Christian steps out, closing the door behind him with that smooth, practiced ease.
They exchange a few friendly words before Christian hands over his keys, clapping the guy on the shoulder.
Ever the gentleman, he rounds the car to open my door, and offers his hand to help me out—something he always does, no matter how many times I tell him I can manage.
The restaurant is everything its reputation promises—luxurious, elegant, and dripping in opulence.
Crystal chandeliers cast a soft, romantic glow over pristine white tablecloths adorned with fresh flowers.
Cascading curtains frame the windows, their flowing folds adding an understated drama to the space, and Velvet chairs beckon, inviting patrons to sink into their plush embrace, while the smooth hum of a jazz band fills the air.
Servers glide through the room, impeccably dressed and unflinchingly attentive.
When Christian asked if I’d ever been here, so hopeful this could be a first for us, I told him no.
It wasn’t exactly a lie—I’ve never eaten here.
But my team did partner with the architects and owners to help create this ethereal aura.
Seeing it now, alive with people, laughter, and soft light, stirs something in me. It feels…full circle.
The menu, which I peeked at online, is a masterful blend of traditional French cuisine and modern innovation. Each dish, a work of art crafted by the hands of chefs, who are nonetheless perfectionists. The wine list reads like a treasure trove of rare vintages and expertly curated selections.
“Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation with us tonight?” The Ma?tre d’ greets us, distracted as she glances down at her tablet. When she finally looks up, her eyes widen just slightly before she blinks the reaction away.
It’s okay. I’m used to women gawking at Christian. He looks like every girl’s dream, the kind of man you watch in princess movies as a kid, the one you dream will take you to prom when you turn sixteen, the one who sweeps you off your feet at twenty-five, and you never look back.
“Yes, under Christian Cavanaugh,” he says, flashing that megawatt smile of his. The smile that gets everyone. It’s been four years, and sometimes it still makes me weak in the knees.
“Ah, of course, Mr. Cavanaugh,” she replies, quickly checking her screen. “Please follow me.”
I’m almost sure the hostess who rounds the corner is supposed to be the one showing us to our seat, her blinks of confusion a dead giveaway. But Ms. High-ponytail seems very eager to please.
Christian places a hand lightly on the small of my back as we follow her through the restaurant. We move past tables and clusters of diners as we weave our way to a table at the center of the room. The weight of someone’s gaze prickles against my skin.
I glance around, scanning the room for anyone familiar, but no one stands out. Still, the feeling lingers—an itch at the back of my mind.
I’ve gotten used to the weight of people’s stares. It comes with the territory. We aren’t celebrities by any means, but we come from some of the most prominent families.
“Here we are,” the Ma?tre d’ chirps, her voice pitches higher as she places two sleek tablets on the table.
“Thank you so much!” Christian and I say in unison. We exchange a glance, grins spreading across our faces.
The Ma?tre d’ glances between us, but her gaze lingers on Christian just a little too long.
Her green eyes betray her thoughts, and when she speaks again, it’s with a breathy softness.
“Enjoy your experience with us.” she clutches her tablet to her chest like it might steady her.
Christian cocks a brow at her, his expression unreadable, and she all but scurries away.
“Well then,” he says, brushing the awkwardness aside with a chuckle, refocusing on me. “Ms. Blaine.” He pulls out my chair, his tone playful yet gentlemanly.
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” I reply, sinking into the seat. He nudges the chair forward, and I glance up at him.
There’s something in the way he looks at me tonight—like I’m the only thing in this room worth noticing that makes me nervous.
But as we settle in, basking in the soft glow of the chandeliers and the decadent aroma of the cuisine, the nerves ease. As always, Christian orders his medium-rare sirloin, and I opt for a lobster dish that turns out to be nothing short of exquisite.
Our conversation flows easily, laughter slipping between us as we reminisce about past dates and shared memories. He seems unusually nostalgic tonight, his gaze softer, his smile lingering longer.
As I swirl the remnants of Riesling in my wine glass, a strange chill creeps over me that causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. I try to brush it off, but the feeling is insistent, like a shadow that won’t move.
My body shivers involuntarily, and to my surprise, the unease doesn’t unsettle me—it ignites something dark and thrilling within me. My toes curl beneath the table as the sensation settles low in my belly.
“Are you cold?” Christian’s voice breaks through, his frown deepening as he watches me.
“No,” I say quickly, forcing a smile. “It must be the wine getting to me. I’m fine.”
His sharp eyes linger on me, but eventually, he relents. “Maybe we should switch it up, then.” He scans the room, his gaze locking on our waiter. With a casual wave, he beckons him over. Gliding up to our table, the young waiter seems eager but nervous.
“Yes, sir?” he says , his voice smooth and professional.
“Can we try your Butterfly Special, please?” Christian asks, his tone light but laced with something I can’t place. He winks, and the waiter’s lips curve into a knowing smile.
“Of course, sir. An excellent choice.” The waiter nods briskly before retreating toward the kitchen.
Butterfly Special? I frown, my fingers tapping the menu, scrolling through every tab. There’s nothing by that name. Not even a hint.
“What’s the Butterfly Special?” I ask, still tapping through the menu.
“You’ll see,” he says, his voice velvet-soft, teasing.
My eyes lift from the tablet to his face, narrowing.
But he just smiles, sliding his open palm across the table.
Suspicion, still gnawing under the surface, I slip my hand in his.
“Don’t worry, you’ll love it,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over my knuckles.
A moment later, three waiters return. One carries a standing champagne bucket with a glimmering bottle of Armand de Brignac nestled inside. Another balances a tray of intricate French desserts, while the third remains close waiting to assist.
My thoughts scatter as I gape at Christian. In my startled silence, his piercing gaze watches me carefully.
“What’s going on, Christian?” I ask, blinking rapidly, trying to make sense of the unwarranted spectacle.
He doesn’t answer, only offering a faint smile as the waiters arrange the setup with practiced precision. A champagne bottle pops, and its rich golden liquid is poured into two flutes. One of the waiters sets a glass in front of me.
My gaze drops to his hand—a large, inked canvas of an intricate rose wrapped in vines and thorns.
The tattoo curls from the back of his hand to his wrist, delicate yet dangerous.
A ring set on his middle finger catches my attention—a heavy metal band etched with a crest I vaguely recognize.
It’s a signet ring, one that looks hauntingly similar to the ones Christian and my brothers wear.
My brow furrows as I try to place the symbol, but the memory remains just out of reach.
My curiosity wins out, and I let my gaze drift upward, toward the man’s face.
The second our eyes meet, I realize it was a mistake.
A mesmerizing blend of emerald and amber stares back at me. The dark border framing his irises only makes them more piercing as they skim over my face, pausing deliberately on my lips. His mouth curves into a sly grin, his tongue slipping out to wet his full lips.
He looks wildly out of place among the other waitstaff. His sheer height alone is enough to intimidate, but when paired with his sharply chiseled features and the effortless air of confidence he exudes, he feels more like a predator among sheep.
A man like him could make you willingly sign your own death note, for just one night in his arms.
“Enjoy,” he says smoothly, ignoring Christian entirely. His eyes hold mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he winks, and I quickly look away.
“Thanks,” I manage, my tone clipped as I force my face into an expression of practiced boredom, dropping the wonderstruck gaze I’m sure was plastered there moments before. And as he turns away, I swear I catch the faintest sound of his chuckle, low and dark, trailing behind him like a phantom.
Once I‘m able to calm my erratic breaths, I glance back at Christian, only to find him glaring at the retreating waiter’s back.
“Everything okay?" I ask, watching his jaw clench and unclench.
His attention snaps to me, storm clouds in his pale blue eyes dissolving into summer sky as his expression melts into that warm, loving smile that still makes my stomach flutter. "Everything's perfect," he assures me, giving my hand a squeeze.
"So, what's the occasion?" I smile back, trying to ignore the prickle of unease that crawls up my spine.
"Seeing you is always an occasion," he replies, brushing a loose curl out of my eye.
Just as his mouth opens to say something more, a waiter sets the silver tray of desserts in the center of our candlelit table.