“You’re ravishing,” he says, voice low, sincere.
Heat crawls up my neck before I can stop it. I feel myself blush and hate how much I like that he notices.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “You look…very handsome.”
His smile is slow. Dangerous.
He steps aside, gesturing toward the elevator. “Shall we?”
He leads me to the waiting car, opening the door and helping me in with effortless courtesy before taking his seat beside me. The door closes, sealing us into a cocoon of leather and quiet.
As the car pulls away from the curb, I glance at him. “So,” I ask, trying to sound casual, “where are we going?”
“To dinner,” he says simply.
I sigh softly, folding my hands in my lap. “Sebastian…I saw the gifts. And while I appreciate them, don’t you think that was a bit much?”
He turns his head to look at me fully now.
“No,” he says without hesitation. “It wasn’t.”
The certainty in his tone sends an unexpected shiver through me.
I look out the window, watching the city blur past, my heartbeat steady but alert.
One date,I remind myself again.
Just one.
The car pulls into the underground garage of Beelines, and my breath catches.
Beelines isn’t just a restaurant—it’stherestaurant. The highest dining room in the city, all glass and skyline, the kind of place people brag about getting a reservation for six months in advance. Sometimes a year. I’ve been here once, years ago, as a plus-one to a collector who wouldn’t stop name-dropping.
But tonight….
The garage is empty.
No luxury sedans. No attendants rushing about. No chatter, no heels clicking across marble. Just silence—and soft music drifting faintly from inside.
I frown. “This place is usually packed. What’s wrong?”
Sebastian steps out first and comes around to my side, opening the door and offering his hand. His touch is warm, steady.
“I prefer a private date with you, Sienna.”
I blink. “You—” I stop myself, then exhale sharply. “You bought out the place?”
“Yes.”
Just like that. No pride. No theatrics. As if buying out the most exclusive restaurant in the city is as casual as ordering dessert.
My stomach flips.
Inside, we’re greeted by the maître d’, a silver-haired man in a tailored suit who bows his head slightly at the sight of Sebastian.
“Good evening, Mr. Rusnak,” he says, respectful. Familiar.
That alone unsettles me.
