"Maksim is already inside," he says, voice flat, giving me nothing.
"Then I suppose I should hurry." I don't hurry. I walk past him with unhurried grace.
The restaurant door swings open, and cool air washes over my overheated skin. The young, blonde, impossibly perky hostess, greets me with a smile that's all teeth and practiced warmth.
"Ms. Ainsley! So wonderful to see you again." She air-kisses near my cheeks, careful not to smudge either of our makeup. "Your table is ready. Right this way."
Maison Lyra is a shrine to feminine luxury. Blush-rose upholstery, brass fixtures catching light like jewelry. Pale wood floors gleam beneath crystal chandeliers. Fresh lilies perfume the air, mixing with espresso and the citrus-sharp scent of artisan cocktails. Jazz plays softly, almost drowned by female laughter echoing off marble walls.
I chose this place deliberately.
I chose this place very deliberately. For the clientele, yes—society wives and Instagram influencers, the kind of crowd that will see me with Maksim Severyn and spread the story faster than any publicist could.
But also for other reasons.
We weave between tables where women lean close over mimosas and grain bowls, sharing secrets. The hostess leads me to a corner table.
Maksim rises as I approach.
He's in charcoal, perfectly tailored. The fabric moves with him as he stands, and I'm struck again by how tall he is. Six feet of controlled menace dressed in wool and silk. I'm five-six in heels, not short by any measure, yet he makes me feel small.
Delicate.
I notice it. Hate that I notice it.
"Victoria." My name in his mouth sounds like a verdict. He moves around the table with that deliberate grace, and then he's leaning in, pressing a kiss to my cheek.
His lips are warm. His cologne fills my lungs.
My pulse kicks against my throat. I notice the response even as it happens: heightened awareness, skin temperature rising, the urge to lean closer warring with the urge to step back. Physical reaction to proximity and pheromones, nothing more. Except my body doesn't seem to understand that distinction, and I'm furious at the betrayal.
His hand settles briefly on my waist to steady me, and the contact burns through silk like a brand.
Then he's pulling out my chair, and I'm sinking into it with hands that threaten to shake. I lock them in my lap.
"How chivalrous," I manage, aiming for wryness and landing somewhere closer to breathless.
He returns to his seat, and satisfaction flickers across his expression. "Don't get used to it. There's a photographer across the street."
Of course.
The paparazzi I arranged. The performance I orchestrated. And I fell for it anyway, let myself feel something for half a second like some naive idiot who still believes in gestures.
I force myself to smile, to ignore the sharp disappointment cutting through my ribs. "I know. I called them."
His eyebrow lifts. "Did you."
"We need to start building the narrative." I reach for the water glass in front of me, then think better of it and set it back down. Keeping my hands still requires active effort. "Rich girl meets dangerous man. Love conquers all. A believable fairy tale."
"Tactical." He leans back, studying me with those ice-blue eyes that see too much.
The waitress appears before I can respond, wearing the restaurant's signature rose-gold apron over black. She sets down menus and launches into the specials with practiced enthusiasm.
I don't need the menu. I've eaten here a dozen times.
"I'll have the heirloom tomato tartare with burrata and micro basil," I say, "but substitute the burrata for the cashew cream, warmed, not cold. And the heritage grain salad on the side, but hold the quinoa and double the farro. Add roasted chickpeas. Crispy. Not soft."
The waitress scribbles frantically.
