Paris
The midday sun broke through the high glass windows of the restaurant, casting sharp, golden rays across the polished mahogany tables. It was exactly twelve fifteen. The worst part of the day. Lunch break time, when lawyers, bankers, and businessmen in pristine suits flooded the dining room, demanding quick service and perfect coffee.
The clinking of porcelain, quiet background music, and the murmur of a hundred voices usually just faded into white noise for me. But today… today, every sound echoed in my head, and every step I took on the hard parquet floor sent a sharp, throbbing pain shooting up my spine.
I paused for a moment by the bar, leaning my hip against the cold marble.
Breathe. I tried to fill my lungs with air, but a terrifying spasm under my right rib forced me to stop abruptly. The pain was sharp, like a red-hot blade piercing deep into my flesh with every expansion of my ribcage. I didn’t know if the ribs were just bruised or cracked. I didn’t dare even think about it.
“Table number four,” the bartender said in passing, pushing a small, round tray toward me holding a perfectly prepared espresso and a glass of ice water. “And don’t mess up, it’s for the guy in the corner.”
I nodded, automatically stretching my lips into that learned, accommodating smile. That smile was my shield. As long as I smiled, no one paid attention to the dark shadows under my eyes that even a thick layer of concealer couldn’t completely hide. No one noticed how I held my right arm unnaturally close to my torso, instinctively trying to protect my injured side.
I grabbed the tray with my left hand and slowly made my way through the labyrinth of tables.
Table number four was located in the furthest, darkest corner of the restaurant, hidden behind a large, decorative pillar. Even in the middle of this radiant noon, that part of the room seemed to belong to another world.
The man sitting there had his back to the light. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but his presence filled the space with a heavy, cold energy. He wore a dark, tailored suit that flawlessly followed the lines of his broad shoulders. He wasn’t looking at me. He wasn’t looking at anyone. His gaze was fixed on some document he held in one hand, while the fingers of his other hand absently twirled an elegant, metal pen.
He was completely absorbed in his own world, unaware of my presence.
I was getting closer. Two steps. One more.
My smile was still frozen on my face. Just put the coffee down and walk away, I repeated to myself.
But, right at the moment I stepped forward to approach the table from his right side, my body betrayed me.
A sharp, paralyzing spasm in my ribs cut through me so hard that a flash of white light exploded behind my eyes. My breath got completely stuck in my throat. My leg buckled, and my torso reflexively bent in an attempt to escape the pain.
The tray in my hand tilted dangerously.
Slow motion. I watched the small white cup slide across the smooth surface. The hot, black liquid spilled over the edge of the porcelain, falling straight toward the sleeve of his expensive, dark jacket and the important papers on the table.
I couldn’t even scream. I knew it was over.
And then… with a speed that wasn’t human, his hand flashed above the table.
Before a single drop could touch his jacket, long, strong fingers closed around my wrist. The grip was steel and scorching hot. At the exact same time, his other hand calmly, with surgical precision, caught the falling cup in mid-air, preventing disaster.
My breath stopped completely.
Slowly, he moved his gaze from the papers and lifted his head. His eyes met mine.
They were black. Not dark brown, not hazel in the shadows, but deep, impenetrable, and black like obsidian. There was no trace of that arrogant anger I expected in them. There was no disgust. He looked at me with a sharp, piercing calmness that was far more dangerous than shouting.
His long fingers still held my wrist firmly. The heat of his skin pierced through the thin fabric of my uniform, a terrifying contrast to my ice-cold sweat. His other hand perfectly, calmly placed the cup back on the table. Not a single drop had fallen on his papers.
“Please…” I spoke, and my voice cracked, turning into a pathetic, broken whisper. I tried to pull my arm back, but he wouldn’t let me go. “Forgive me… please, I don’t know what came over me… I… I’ll pay for the damages, I just beg you…”
My heart was beating in a wild, sick rhythm. I waited for him to start yelling, to demand the manager, to humiliate me in front of the whole room. That’s what rich people did.
But he didn’t do that.
His gaze slowly, analytically slid down my face, noticing how I was convulsively biting my lower lip. He didn’t look at me the way other guests looked at me, he didn’t scan my curves, he didn’t treat me like a piece of meat. His eyes were searching for something else. He lowered his gaze to my torso, exactly to the spot where I unconsciously, desperately held my other arm pressed against my ribs. He saw my flinch.
He slowly released my wrist.
“Is everything alright?” he asked. His voice was deep, velvety, but filled with a heavy, demanding note. He didn’t ask about the coffee. He asked about me.
Before I could open my mouth and utter another lie, the air around us changed. The sharp scent of expensive cologne and peppermint announced the arrival of my personal hell.
“Sir, my deepest apologies,” came the smooth, perfectly controlled voice of my executioner.
Adrien materialized beside me like a ghost. He wore an impeccably tailored suit, with a gold pin on the lapel denoting his status, the manager of L’Éclipse. His face was adorned with that accommodating, charming smile that delighted the guests, but I saw the muscle in his jaw dangerously clenching.
“I hope she didn’t stain you,” Adrien continued, bowing slightly to the man. “This table is, of course, on the house today. We will bring you a new espresso immediately.”
The dark man slowly leaned back against his chair. His facial expression closed off, becoming a mask of pure ice as he looked at Adrien.
“There is no need for that,” he said coldly, flipping the metal pen through his fingers. “Nothing happened. The coffee wasn’t spilled. It happens.”
“We do not allow such oversights in this restaurant,” Adrien replied, his voice becoming a shade sharper, though the smile remained. And then he uttered a sentence that sounded like a death warrant. “Paris is just a little… clumsy today.”
The man at the table paused. The movement of his fingers around the pen stopped. Slowly, his gaze shifted from Adrien and fell directly onto my small, gold nameplate pinned to my uniform.
Paris. Something changed in those black eyes. A twitch. A shadow of doubt and sudden, inexplicable curiosity. He studied the name on my chest, and then looked back up at my face, straight into my terrified eyes.
“Paris,” he repeated the name quietly, almost to himself, as if testing how it sounded on his tongue. Then he addressed Adrien again, but he didn’t take his eyes off me. “As I said. No problem. It happens to everyone.”
“Of course,” Adrien gritted out. And then his hand, the same one that signed checks and shook hands with the elite, slithered like a snake and grabbed my upper arm.
His fingers dug right into an old, yellowish bruise hidden beneath the long sleeve of my white shirt. The air hissed through my teeth from the sudden pain, but I didn’t dare let out a sound.
“Come here for a moment,” Adrien said through clenched teeth, maintaining that fake smile for the guest. “Let’s get you sorted out.”
The man at the table narrowed his eyes slightly, tracking Adrien’s hand, but Adrien had already turned and started dragging me across the dining room.
He dragged me fast, too fast for my broken ribs. Every step was agony. We passed through the double doors of the kitchen, but we didn’t stop there. He ignored the stares of the chefs. He pushed me further, down the narrow, dark hallway that led to the basement.
The doors of the wine cellar were heavy, solid oak, soundproofed to maintain the temperature.
He opened them, shoved me inside, and followed me in.
The sound of the lock clicking was the most terrifying sound in the world. It meant the mask had fallen off.
I didn’t even manage to turn around. Adrien’s blow came out of the dark, fast and merciless. His hard fist buried itself right into my stomach, just below the ribs that were already burning from previous injuries.
The world vanished. The air was violently forced from my lungs. My knees gave out instantly and I fell to the cold stone floor of the cellar, writhing in terrifying, silent agony. I tried to inhale, but my lungs were paralyzed.
He didn’t let me catch my breath.
He roughly grabbed me by the collar of my uniform and hauled me to my feet, slamming my back into a heavy wooden wine rack. Bottles clinked above my head.
I expected him to squeeze my throat, but Adrien was too smart for that. Bruises on the neck are visible. Guests would ask questions. That’s why his hand went lower.
His fingers, firm and merciless, grabbed my breast through the thin fabric of my uniform and bra. It wasn’t a touch of lust. It was a touch of pure, sadistic punishment. He squeezed my sensitive flesh with such force that I felt his nails digging into my skin, threatening to tear it.
The pain was blinding, humiliating, paralyzing.
“Ah…” a hoarse, stifled sob escaped me. Tears instantly blurred my vision, sliding down my cheeks. I instinctively tried to pull away, to push him off, but he only pressed me harder against the rack, twisting the flesh in his fist.
“Listen to me carefully, you useless, stupid whore,” he hissed, getting right in my face. His eyes were crazed with rage, and his breath smelled of that same peppermint he had just been smiling with at the guest. “You almost spilled fucking coffee on Julien de Montfort. Do you know who he is? Do you know that man can close this restaurant with one phone call and level us to the ground?!”
I tried to shake my head, pleading with him with my eyes to let me go, as the pain in my chest became unbearable.
“You don’t know anything,” he spat the words, finally releasing me.
I fell back, sliding down the rack until I touched the cold floor again. I curled into a ball, wrapping my arms around my injured chest and ribs, fighting for every tiny, trembling breath in the dark of the cellar.
Adrien stood over me, adjusting the cuffs on his perfect suit as if he had just washed dirt off his hands. His voice returned to that eerie, calm equilibrium.
“You’re done for today. Take off that uniform so you don’t stain it with your tears and go home,” he said, looking down at me with absolute disgust.
He turned toward the door, placed his hand on the handle, and then paused, turning only his head toward me. A shadow fell across his face, turning him into a pure monster.
“Go home, Paris,” he repeated in a softer, but deadly tone. “And wait for me. Tonight we will finish this conversation.”
