Chapter 1
Why are you so nervous?
You wish you had time to stop at home, take a shower, freshen up and put on a nicer outfit. You did not realise how close to your shift Robert booked this restaurant. It is grand, with elegant chairs, polished cutlery and waiters dressed like they are serving royalty. Even the air smells expensive.
Robert walks up the road toward you, dressed in a fine black suit, blond hair slicked back, icy blue eyes fixed on you. His suit fits perfectly, emphasising his lean frame, and the black briefcase in his hand completes the look.
“Ravena, I thought you might like one of my favourite casual spots,” he says.
Casual.
You glance at the chandeliers.
Right, very casual.
He guides you inside with a hand at the small of your back. The touch is light, but it sends a flutter through your stomach. He pulls out your chair, pushes it in gently, then sits across from you. A waiter hands you menus.
There are no prices.
Everything is in French.
The only thing you recognise is salad with chicken.
Your throat tightens.
The waiter asks what you would like to drink.
“The house red, please,” you say.
“And you, sir?”
“A Chardonnay,” Robert replies without looking up.
The waiter nods. “Are you ready to order, or would you prefer more time?”
“I will have the escargot, a baguette on the side and braised poulet,” Robert says smoothly. “And my date will have the same.”
The waiter raises a brow at you. You shrug.
“Not my preference, but if he says it is good.”
“Acquired taste, young miss,” the waiter says softly before taking the menus.
Robert smiles like he has done something impressive. “You are so much more refreshing than the women I meet at work. They are usually energetic, alpha women. It grates on my nerves. But you are calmer. Feminine.”
You are not sure if that is a compliment, but you smile anyway. “I am flattered.”
He swirls his wine, waiting for you to agree with something he has not said yet. You sip yours instead, letting the warmth settle in your chest. Maybe it will calm the buzzing under your skin.
“You know, I do not usually have time for dates,” he says. “My schedule is insane. Clients, meetings, travel, first class. It never stops.”
“Sounds intense,” you say.
“It is,” he replies, pleased. “But I make time for the right people.” He reaches across the table and strokes your hand.
Your stomach flutters again. You are not sure if it is the wine or the way he says it, like you should feel honoured. Maybe you should. No one has ever carved out time for you before.
The waiter returns with bread and butter. Robert does not acknowledge him. He tears a piece, butters it and places it on your plate like he is performing a ritual.
“There. Proper bread. Not cheap stuff.”
You force a smile. “Thank you.”
He launches into a story about a client who argued with him over investments. You do not understand half of it, but he speaks with such confidence that you nod along anyway. He seems so sure of everything. His job, his opinions, the world. It is impressive. Intimidating. Both.
The starters arrive. The escargot glistens under the lights. Robert demonstrates how to pull the meat from the shell.
“See. Easy. Try it. You will surprise yourself.”
He watches you closely. Waiting.
So you try it. It is strange, garlicky and rich.
He smiles like he has won something. “Told you.”
“Different,” you say, poking at your salad.
“Different is good,” he replies. “You need someone to show you these things.”
You laugh softly, hoping it is the right reaction. Hoping he does not notice how out of place you feel in a room full of people who probably eat snails on purpose. You take another sip of wine, letting the warmth settle in your chest. You tell yourself to relax, but the truth slips through anyway. You would feel far more comfortable at Nando’s, eating something you recognise, somewhere you do not have to pretend.
He brushes his fingers over your wrist. “Relax, Ravena. You are doing fine.”
Fine.
You do not feel fine.
You feel like you are pretending.
He talks more about colleagues who messed up deals and how he fixed everything. He speaks like he is the only competent person in the building. You nod along, and he seems to like that.
When the mains arrive, he studies you. “You are very easy to be around. Most women are demanding. High maintenance. Always wanting something.”
“I am not like that,” you say.
“No,” he agrees. “You are not. That is why I like you.”
Your stomach tightens. If he likes you, that is good. Right?
“Stick with me,” he says lightly. “I will take you places you have never been. The Ritz. River cruises. Couples massages.”
You picture it. Luxury, softness, being taken care of. It sounds nice. It sounds like a life you have never had.
He leans in. “Stick with me and you will never have to worry about money again.”
You laugh, unsure. “I do not know about that.”
“I do,” he says simply.
He tells you about his last girlfriend. How she did not appreciate him. How she used him. He looks wounded, vulnerable. You feel something tug inside you.
“That is awful,” you say.
“You are different,” he says softly. “I can tell.”
He asks about your hobbies, your shows, your music. He repeats your words back to you, agrees with everything, mirrors your laughter. It feels like being seen. It feels like being chosen.
“You are just like me,” he says more than once.
It feels nice. Too nice.
He brushes your wrist again. “Your friends do not get you the way I do, do they?”
“My friends?”
“You seem deeper,” he says. “More thoughtful. I doubt they appreciate that.”
You sip your wine instead of answering.
“And your family,” he adds, “They must be proud. Although I imagine they do not understand your potential. Not yet.”
You swallow. “They work a lot.”
“Exactly,” he says, as if that proves something.
He paints pictures of Paris, Rome, private jets, museums and culture. He says he can help you get on your feet. Show you the world.
You want to believe him.
You do believe him.
Dessert arrives. Crème brûlée to share. He cracks the sugar top and feeds you the first bite. Sweet, silky and rich. He watches your reaction like it matters.
When the bill comes, he does not look at it. He just pays.
Outside, the night air is cool. He drapes his coat over your shoulders. “I cannot have you catching a cold.”
Your cheeks warm.
He buys you a single pale rose from a closing florist. “For you,” he says. “A reminder of tonight.”
A black cab pulls up. He opens the door. “I will text you when you are home. I want to know you are safe.”
Safe.
The word settles deep in your chest.
He kisses your cheek. You blush. The cab pulls away. You watch him disappear.
Maybe this is what a great date is supposed to feel like.
Maybe this is the start of something real.
*
The luxury becomes mundane. Even though your world expands, it shrinks just as quickly. From seeing your family once a year and your friends every week, to seeing no one but Robert.
Caught up in the love bubble and honeymoon phase, you want to spend all your free time outside your delivery shifts with him. He makes you feel so safe and so seen, like no one ever has.
But you start missing family gatherings because he plans trips abroad. You do not know if he books them for deals or the best seats or something else entirely. You always cancel, promising you will make it to next year’s barbecue in Cornwall.
You miss coffee meet ups with friends. You skip book club because Robert has a reservation he waited weeks to get. Soon the invitations stop coming. When you finally are free, they say, “Your boyfriend seems to be more than enough company.”
You give up after that.
Robert always has a new adventure planned. You love seeing the world, but sometimes you wish you could talk to your friends about it. Hear about their lives. Feel like yourself again.
Instead, your life becomes Robert and sweating and grinding on an e‑bike.
You are up for promotion. Everything finally feels like it is looking up.
Then Robert asks you to quit.
If you want to know what happens after this moment — the part where the warmth cracks and you finally see him clearly — the full book is waiting for you on Amazon. https://amzn.eu/d/0f8Ak9Mj
