Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Another pair sat closer to us, the man’s hand resting on the inside of his date’s thigh beneath the table, her lips parting slightly as he murmured something in her ear.
Every moment in this space felt decadent, intimate, like the entire restaurant existed in its own private universe—separate from the rest of the world.
And here I was, caught in the middle of it, with a man who made me feel like I was the most indulgent course of the evening.
I cleared my throat and returned my view to Fabien, suddenly needing something solid to hold onto. “This menu is like a portal into a magical world.”
“And that,” Fabien nodded, “is what fine dining should be. Not stuffy or snobby, but fun, creative, and even. . .inspiring.”
I shivered at the way his voice slipped along my skin.
Then, the lights brightened slightly, and Cosmo reappeared, beaming. “Now that everyone is done. My dear alchemists, I must ask you to rise.”
I blinked, startled. “What?”
Cosmo only grinned. “For our next set of courses we must take a journey.”
Behind him, a massive section of the wall slid away, revealing yet another tunnel—this one glowing bright white.
What the fuck?
A hushed murmur swept through the room.
The couples around us glanced at each other, clearly just as surprised as I was.
I had assumed we’d remain at our table for the entire evening, that this was the experience.
But apparently, we were just getting started.
Alright. Now I see why this cost so much.
“Alchemists!” Cosmo turned and stepped toward the entrance. “Come with me!”
Where the hell are we going next? And—more terrifyingly obvious—what would happen once we got there?
Chapter eight
More to Come
Rae
Fabien rose from his seat, got right next to me, and extended his hand.
I gave him my hand.
Soon, those fingers—long, strong, elegant—curled around mine with a warmth that sent a slow, languid heat through my entire body.
It was a small gesture.
Simple.
Sweet.
But it wrecked me.
Because he didn’t just offer his hand to help me up—he tenderly held it.
His touch wasn’t hurried, wasn’t dismissive, wasn’t the kind of fleeting contact I had grown used to.
No.
This was romantic.
Sensually intentional.
And the moment I rose to my feet, I expected him to let my hand go.
But he didn’t.
Instead, his grip stayed firm, his thumb absentmindedly gliding across my knuckles as he led me forward, guiding me like I was precious.
Like he wanted me close.
And Lord help me, I loved it.
God this is a perfect night.
I couldn’t wait to tell my therapist and even Laila. They both would scream with joy.
What were the odds that I would meet him? Well. . .I am worthy. I am deserving. So. . .he came to me.
The tunnel ahead was bathed in an ethereal white glow, stretching forward like a path into another world.
The other couples moved through it in hushed awe, their steps slow, as if crossing some invisible threshold into magic.
Fabien and I walked together, fingers laced, his presence an anchor beside me.
And for once, I didn’t overthink the way I fit next to him.
I didn’t shrink.
Didn’t second-guess.
Didn’t let the old doubts whisper their cruel nonsense in my ear.
I belonged here.
With him.
And when we reached the end of the tunnel, my breath hitched.
Because—holy shit.
What greeted my eyes wasn’t another dining room, or even a secret chamber.
It was an underground subway station.
What the hell?!
And it wasn’t just any subway station.
The entire thing gleamed—polished marble stretching high and wide, chandeliers dripping light from above, gold inlay shimmering like veins running through the walls.
Unlike a typical New York train system, the tracks were pristine, without a hint of grime or vermin. And the walls had no graffiti.
Now they are just blowing my damn mind!
In front of us stood the most exquisite subway train I had ever seen.
It wasn’t some battered MTA deathtrap—it looked like a train pulled from a billionaire’s fever dream.
Polished steel.
Gilded doors.
Black-tinted windows that concealed whatever awaited inside.
Alright. This might be the dopest restaurant I’ve ever been to.
The other couples were already being led to their private cars by their waiters, disappearing into their own pocket-sized realms of whatever lavish experience was waiting beyond those doors.
And our waitress—the Black woman who had been effortlessly smooth all evening—stood by the last car, smiling knowingly as she gestured us forward.
My pulse pounded with excitement.
This was the kind of experience that rewired a person’s brain chemistry.
I turned to Fabien, barely able to contain my glee, and whispered, “It’s not my job, but I think this alone would confirm the second star.”
Fabien exhaled a quiet laugh, and his thumb traced along my skin. “I absolutely agree.”
Then, with a gentle tug, he led me inside.
And oh. . .the inside of the subway car looked nothing like a subway car.
Instead of rows of cramped seats and metal poles, there was a single, intimate table, positioned near the center, two plush chairs set impossibly close together.
Soft candlelight flickered from sconces along the walls, casting everything in a warm, golden haze.