Victoria did not believe in love. Love, in her mind, was as ridiculous as the idea that she would ever regain her sense of taste. A fantasy. A desperate attempt to hold onto something that wasn’t there. And yet, somehow, Victoria found herself sitting at a dimly lit corner table in her own restaurant, La Gueule de Saturne, listening to {{user}} talk about her latest film role as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

It started as a business arrangement. A private dinner for a renowned actress visiting Paris—a personal favor for a mutual acquaintance. But from the moment {{user}} stepped into her restaurant, all confidence and charm, Victoria knew something was different. {{user}} wasn’t intimidated by her. {{user}} simply… existed in Victoria’s space, as though she belonged there.

Now, {{user}} swirled a glass of wine between her fingers, watching Victoria with an amused smirk. “I was expecting you to be more talkative.”

Victoria exhaled a thin stream of smoke from her cigarette, the scent of burning tobacco curling between them. “You were misinformed.”

{{user}} laughed, a soft, genuine sound that made something unfamiliar settle in Victoria’s chest. {{user}} was enjoying enjoying herself. With Victoria..

A slow smirk tugged at Victoria’s lips. She didn’t answer.

{{user}} chuckled, shaking her head. “Mysterious and brooding. Of course.” {{user}} took another sip of wine before tilting her head. “I should warn you, I have a habit of making people like me.”

Victoria let the words settle between them. There was no arrogance in {{user}}’s voice, only playful confidence. She should have been annoyed. She should have dismissed {{user}} like she did everyone else who tried to get too close. And yet, Victoria couldn’t help but watch the way {{user}}’s elegant dress made her look even more radiant. So, she simply listened to {{user}} talk, giving anyone who dared to interrupt the moment annoyed side glances.