"Miss Hart, lovely to see you again. We have your table ready."
The hostess gives me a warm smile as she leads me through the softly lit restaurant. The quiet hum of conversation and the gentle clinking of crystal glasses surround me like a familiar blanket.
"Thank you for fitting me in without a reservation."
"Of course."
She walks ahead of me in sleek black heels, a fitted black dress hugging her figure and ending just above the knees. The air is thick with the rich scent of seared steak, garlic butter, and expensive wine. It's comforting in a way that's become ritual.
My phone buzzes in my hand just as she stops beside a small table for two.
The booth is upholstered in soft, whiskey-colored leather that cools my skin as I slide in. Across from me, a single empty chair faces the main dining room. A habit—I never sit with my back to the room.
I smooth the cloth napkin into my lap just as I feel the weight of a stare.
From the table beside me.
I don't look.
I'm used to being watched by powerful men.
Used to the way they stare. Curious. Admiring. Calculating.
It's my job to draw their attention.
And I'm damn good at it.
But tonight, I'm not working.
My new contract starts tomorrow. Coming to Ember & Ash for a perfectly cooked steak has become my ritual. A final indulgence before I become whoever a man wants me to be.
I glance down and unlock my phone. A text from my real estate agent, Nina, waits.
NINA: You were right. That little bakery is in the perfect location. I'm shocked no one else has made a move.
HART: So Monday's still good?
NINA: Still good! You'll be the first in. This place has your name written all over it.
I smile softly.
It does feel like it's mine.
I've been saving for this for four years. And after this last contract? I'll finally have enough to make it real.
I set my phone down as the waiter arrives with a glass of water. I don't need a menu.
I already know what I want.
Something rich. Something decadent. Something that reminds me who I am before I start pretending again.
"The Hart Reserve, please." I hand him the menu.
At the same time, the man at the next table says, "Storm's Reserve."
The sound of his voice is deep and low—commanding. It brushes across my skin like static.
I glance at him.
And I freeze for just a second.
He's the kind of man who leaves destruction in his wake.
Tall. Broad-shouldered in a tailored black button-down. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong, tanned forearms, veins defined like marble.
But it's his face that holds me. Sharp jaw. Slight stubble. Tousled dark hair that looks expensive and unbothered.
And those eyes—
Blue. Piercing. Like the edge of a storm.
And they're locked on me.
I feel it—the way he watches.
Curious. Calm. Dangerous.
I meet his gaze and raise one brow, cool and steady.
"Would you like to pair that with the Hart Vintage?" the waiter asks me.
I blink. Right. The waiter's still here.
"Yes, thank you."
The 2015 vintage. My favorite. Rich, smooth, unforgettable—like everything I want tonight to be.
"Storm's Vintage," the man next to me adds, with the same blunt tone.
The most expensive bottle they carry.
Of course.
"And what are you celebrating tonight?" he asks, voice just loud enough for me to hear.
I don't turn fully. Just enough to answer.
"Who says I'm celebrating?"
Men like him always assume the world revolves around them. That we show up to be seen, not to see.
I came here for my favorite meal.
Not to be consumed.
Above us, two sommeliers descend the spiral staircase of the wine tower. The glass-encased centerpiece gleams behind the dining area like a cathedral for wine. Shelves of rare vintages line its walls, glowing softly under golden backlights.
"You smiled," the man says again, voice low and amused.
"I didn't realize that was forbidden at The Storm," I say without looking at him.
He chuckles. It's smooth and warm, like honey stirred into whiskey.
"Not forbidden," he says. "Just… rare."
I finally turn.
His face is unreadable. His gaze is anything but.
Focused. Sharp. Like a hunter studying his mark.
He's trying to read me.
Trying to figure out who I am.
I let him.
"So, what brings you here?" he asks, lifting his water glass.
The way he holds it—like he owns not just the glass, but the whole room.
I shrug. "The steak."
That slow smirk appears on his lips.
"You don't seem like the type to indulge in something as ordinary as food."
I arch a brow. "And what type do I seem like?"
His eyes flick over me again.
"The type that gets what she wants."
For a second, I feel something falter inside me.
He doesn't know me. Doesn't know what I've given up. What I've survived. How hard I've worked to get anything that's mine.
But I don't show it.
I just sip my water and glance toward the wine tower, where the sommelier is returning with our bottles.
"If that's a compliment," I say dryly, "you might want to work on your delivery."
He presses his lips together, barely holding back another smirk.
"Noted."
The silence that stretches between us isn't uncomfortable.
It's… electric.
Like a storm building pressure.
Then the sommelier arrives, dressed in black gloves and formality. He presents my bottle first.
"The Hart Reserve," he says smoothly. "2015 vintage. Deep berries, warm oak, a velvet finish. Shall I pour?"
"Yes, please."
I watch as the dark liquid flows into my glass. Smooth. Slow. Like silk.
I take a sip.
And it tastes like home.
Like something real.
Something mine.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him watching me again.
His own glass of Storm's Reserve sits untouched in front of him.
He's too focused on me.
That look in his eyes—it's not flirtation. It's calculation.
He watches like a man who wants to understand every move before he makes his own.
Like a man who always plays to win.
I set my glass down.
Calm. Steady.
Because I didn't come here for anyone but me.
But somehow, Luca Storm is making me wonder…
What if tonight changes everything?