“Perfect temper,” he murmurs, checking one final reading. “Now we create perfection.”
“Watch,” Adrian says, gesturing me closer to the workstation. “This is where art and science become indistinguishable.”
I lean in, curious despite having seen variations of this process before. Adrian treats each batch like a discovery.
“First, I reduce the blood.” He points to a small copper pot where crimson liquid simmers. “Low heat, never boiling. Concentration without denaturing the proteins. It takes sixteen minutes to reach the optimal viscosity.”
He transfers the reduced blood to a glass beaker.
“Too early, and the water content disrupts crystallization. Too late, and the metallic notes overpower the cocoa’s natural complexity.” He checks the digital thermometer again. “93.0 degrees. Perfect.”
Adrian adds the concentrated blood to the tempered chocolate, folding it with gentle strokes. No splashing, no dramatic gestures—just incorporation.
“The iron compounds must bind with the cocoa solids at exactly this temperature. It creates a molecular bridge that transforms both components.” He continues stirring. “This equilibrium only exists for approximately forty seconds before the temperature drops.”
The chocolate gleams under the lights, its surface tension breaking and reforming with each stroke of his spatula.
“Now for the ganache.”
Adrian pours heated cream into the mixture, stirring carefully. The scent is intoxicating—dark chocolate with something else beneath it, something primal yet refined.
“Try this.” He extends a small tasting spoon toward me.
I take it, studying the glossy darkness before placing it on my tongue. The ganache melts immediately—velvety, complex, with notes of black cherry and tobacco. Then it happens—that subtle metallic undertone emerges, so perfectly balanced it presents as an exotic spice rather than what it truly is.
“Fuck,” I mutter appreciatively. “That’s transcendent. The iron note is?—”
“Undetectable to most palates,” Adrian finishes. “They’ll assume it’s some rare spice from some far-flung place they’ve never heard of.”
“This is why you’re the artist,” I admit, watching him work with that fastidious precision that borders on reverence. The transformation of blood into luxury is something only Adrian could perfect.
Adrian turns to me with that cold smile—the one that never quite reaches his eyes but reveals his satisfaction. “And you’re the collector. We each have our medium.”
I nod, acknowledging the perfect symmetry of our partnership. Where I preserve the subjects, he transforms them into ephemeral pleasures. Death and chocolate—both indulgences that captivate the human experience.
“I read that review,” I say, pulling out my phone to scroll through the article I’d saved. “The food critic from the Chronicle—Kendall, was it? She absolutely eviscerated your Valentine’s collection.”
I expect a flash of irritation from Adrian. Critics rarely understand true artistry, especially when they’re missing crucial context about the ingredients. But instead, his eyes sharpen with interest.
“Maya Kendall,” he corrects me, the name rolling off his tongue with unusual attentiveness. “Read me the part about the truffles.”
I find the passage. “Despite Vale’s technical mastery, his signature Valentine’s collection feels hollow—a perfect shell containing nothing but emptiness where passion should reside.”
Adrian’s expression transforms, something I’ve rarely seen in our long friendship. It’s not anger—it’s fascination.He moves away from the tempering table, suddenly energized.
“She tasted the emptiness,” he says with something like wonder in his voice. His fingers tap against the countertop, a staccato rhythm of excitement. “She actually understood.”
I’ve known Adrian long enough to recognize that tone—the sudden fixation, the slightly elevated pitch, the way his breathing has quickened. It’s the sound of obsession taking root.
“Adrian,” I say carefully, “what exactly are you thinking?”
I’ve seen this look before. Years of friendship with Adrian Vale, and I know every shade of his expressions—especially the dangerous ones. The way his eyes dance with intensity, his movements acquire that predatory grace. It’s how he looked before he seduced Clarissa DeMarco after she wrote that scathing review of his ganache texture at that charity gala three years ago. He’d conquered her thoroughly, made her recant her criticism publicly, then disappeared from her life so completely she had a nervous breakdown. How he looked when that food blogger claimed his pralines werecompletely forgettable, only to become another notch on his bedpost—left dazed and obsessed, sending pathetic emails for months after he’d grown bored with her.
But this is different. There’s a reverence in his fascination with Maya Kendall. Not the usual cold calculation when someone requirescorrection. This is deeper.
The blood-infused chocolate sits between us, cooling into something exquisite and terrible. Like our friendship. Like our shared secrets.
“She understood the emptiness,” he repeats, seeminglyto himself. “Without knowing what she was tasting, she sensed it. She has a gift.”
