Date Night

The rooftop shoot was supposed to be just that; staged glances, fabricated smiles, a choreographed campaign to convince the world we were Velmora's golden couple. And yet, when Blake took my hand to "warm it," the moment didn't feel artificial. It felt dangerously real.

We didn't speak much after that, not even during the ride back to the penthouse. But the silence didn't carry the old tension. It felt… suspended. As though we'd reached the edge of something neither of us could name.

The following morning, I entered my office with every intention of diving into work and erasing the lingering weight of that rooftop gaze. Sarah had my schedule printed out, as usual, along with a triple-shot iced espresso.

"You'll need this," she said. "The IT team wants an update, legal has questions about the joint distribution rights, and your father called twice."

"Perfect," I muttered, already pulling up emails.

But the moment I sat down, my phone buzzed.

[Blake]: Are you free tonight?

I blinked.

He didn't usually text me unless it was about a board meeting or something Evelyn-related. I stared at the message, rereading it twice.

[Me]: Free-ish. Why?

The reply came fast.

[Blake]: I want to take you out. No press. No family. Just us. A proper date.

I sat back in my chair. A date?

"Everything okay?" Sarah asked.

"Yeah," I said too quickly. "Just… corporate espionage."

I waited five whole minutes before replying.

[Me]: Where?

[Blake]: It's a surprise. Dress nice. Not formal. I'll pick you up at 6.

I didn't answer right away. A dozen reasons not to go flooded my brain. But underneath all that was one, single reason to say yes:

I was curious.

At 5:45, I stood in front of my open closet, glaring at my clothes. Sarah had already gone home, and I was on my own. Formal was too cold, casual too indifferent. In the end, I chose a navy-blue wrap dress and simple heels. Elegant, effortless—at least on the outside.

Blake arrived exactly at six. No driver. Just him, behind the wheel of a sleek black coupe.

"You look… stunning," he said, voice low as I slid into the passenger seat.

"You clean up well too," I replied.

We drove in silence for a while, the radio playing some indie jazz instrumental in the background. I kept glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, trying to decode the shift I felt since the rooftop shoot. He looked relaxed, but there was a tension in the way his fingers curled on the wheel.

He pulled off the main road and into a quiet street lined with old brick buildings and hanging lanterns. We parked outside a bistro tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore. No paparazzi. No fans. Just warm golden lights and a handwritten chalkboard menu outside.

"What is this place?" I asked.

"My parents used to come here," he said. "Before things got... complicated. It's the first place my mom made my dad dance. He hated it but did it anyway."

He said it so casually, but I caught the undercurrent in his voice. The soft edge only used when speaking of her.

Inside, we were greeted by a host who clearly recognized Blake but said nothing. He led us to a small corner table, candle-lit, framed by ivy-covered windows.

The food was amazing. Roasted vegetables in wine sauce, hand-rolled pasta, a dessert that tasted like honeyed dreams. But it wasn't the food that made the evening.

It was the conversation.

For once, we didn't talk about work. We talked about childhood books, ridiculous family holidays, and awkward teenage years. I laughed more than I meant to. He told me about how he once got stuck climbing out of his prep school dorm window. I told him about the time I faked a violin recital to get out of a calculus exam.

"You're not who I expected," I told him somewhere between our second glasses of wine and the shared tiramisu.

"Neither are you," he said. "You're… softer than you look."

I raised an eyebrow. "Dangerous thing to say."

He grinned. "Noted. But true."

There was a pause. One of those lingering, breath-held pauses that could tip either way.

Then he reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine. Not possessive. Not performative. Just... gentle.

"Thank you for coming," he said.

"I haven't said yes to a second date," I teased.

"Yet."

When we left, the air was crisp and scented with flowers from the neighboring shop. He opened the car door for me without a word, but once we were seated, he didn't start the engine.

Instead, he looked at me—really looked.

"We don't have to rush this," he said. "But I'd like to try. To be real with you. No pretending. No press. Just... us."

My heart thudded in my chest.

I should've said something clever or dismissive. Should've reestablished the distance.

But I didn't.

Instead, I said, "Okay."

Just that. One word. And somehow, it felt like everything.