The invite was slipped under her door just after dusk.
A single black card with gold lettering:
Tonight. 9PM. Bellamy's Table – Back entrance.Attire: Comfortable. Curious.Course Count: Confidential.
Elena stared at it for a long moment, heart thrumming.
She could say no.
Stay in, pour herself a glass of wine, and keep her curiosity nicely tamed.
But she knew she wouldn't.
By 9:05, she was stepping through the back gate of Bellamy's with her curls pinned up, a linen dress brushing her knees, and a thin layer of anticipation slick on her skin.
Soft music floated on the breeze.
Not from speakers, but live—someone was playing a cello under the pergola.
Candles glowed everywhere: along stone walls, on the long table set under olive trees, even tucked between planters of herbs.
The air was warm, alive with perfume and promise.
There were only seven guests, seated in mismatched chairs.
All strangers.
All quiet, but charged.
Marco appeared like a secret—sleeves rolled, eyes glowing, a wine bottle in one hand.
"Elena." His voice was velvet.
"You came hungry again."
"Always."
He leaned in.
"Good. This night was made for you."
She took a seat near the end of the table, her fingertips skimming the etched wood.
Conversation stayed soft, sensual, words spoken like flavors shared between lips.
The first course arrived—brought not on plates, but on polished wooden boards passed hand-to-hand.
Spiced figs wrapped in prosciutto.
Chilled melon with a drizzle of rosewater.
Honeyed cheese that melted against her tongue.
No menus.
No explanations.
Just sensations.
Marco appeared behind her between courses.
"Like it?"
"Too much," she whispered.
"Not yet." His breath brushed her neck.
"But soon."
Her skin bloomed with heat.
The second course was plated by Theo—who gave her a secret smile as he set it down.
Saffron-poached chicken, nestled in creamy polenta and dusted with edible flowers.
Elena's mouth watered before the first bite.
The table had softened by now—shoulders leaned closer, wine glasses clinked with softer laughter, and someone had slipped off their shoes under the table.
It wasn't lost on Elena how a single look here could last longer than a conversation elsewhere.
The third course never came with cutlery.
Instead, Marco returned, holding a small bowl filled with glossy, dark chocolate and fresh strawberries.
He placed it directly in front of Elena and murmured:
"This one's only for you."
Everyone else resumed their conversations.
But not her.
Marco didn't leave.
He dipped a berry, slowly, deliberately, and held it to her lips.
She opened her mouth.
Took the fruit.
And the heat.
Their eyes locked.
Around them, the dinner continued.
But between them? Something was just starting to simmer.
Elena licked a smear of chocolate from her lip, barely breathing.
"Course four?" she whispered.
Marco's smile was dangerous.
"Course four is... after dessert."