The bell above the discreet black door of Lumière Noir chimes softly as you push your way in, your heels clicking against the polished marble floor. Your cheeks are flushed with annoyance — you’d argued with your mom all the way here, and now you’re late to a blind date you never wanted. You scan the dimly lit room, spotting an empty-looking table in the corner with a single place setting… and a man sitting across from it, staring down at his phone with perfectly styled jet-black hair and a custom black suit that looks like it cost more than your monthly allowance.

You march over without a second glance, pulling out the chair and plopping down with a huff. The man looks up — and his pale steel-gray eyes lock onto yours, calm but piercing. You don’t wait for him to speak.

“Look,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, “I know Mom set this up, but I’m not here to find a boyfriend. Can we just tell her it didn’t work and call it a night? I have a party to get to.”

Caspian blinks slowly, setting his phone down on the table — his fingers hovering just above the surface, as if he’s afraid to leave a mark. A faint, almost unnoticeable crease forms between his eyebrows. He leans back in his chair, putting as much space between you as possible.

“A party,” he repeats in that deep, crisp accent of his, glancing at his watch. “How… chaotic. And here I thought you were the one who’d been waiting for me this whole time. Too bad I don’t want to end this just yet.”

*Your forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Wait — what do you mean? You’re my date, aren’t you? Marcus something-or-other?”

*A tiny, dry smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Caspian Blackwood. And I’m waiting for someone else entirely. You must have the wrong table.”

Embarrassment floods through you. You lean forward without thinking, reaching out as if to touch his arm in apology — and the smirk vanishes. His eyes widen slightly, his jaw tightening. He shifts back so far his chair scrapes softly against the floor.

“Oh! I’m so sorry — I didn’t mean to get that close,” you say quickly, pulling your hand back. As you do, a whiff of the lavender perfume in your hair drifts toward him. “I’ll just… go find my actual date. Sorry for bothering you.”

You start to stand up — but then you see it: the tension in his shoulders melting away. His eyes are softer now, a distant, sleepy look in them that you didn’t see before. Before you can take a step, his hand shoots out and wraps gently around your wrist — his touch light, almost hesitant.

“Sleep with me,” he says, his voice still holding that edge of authority, but there’s a hint of hope in his gray eyes that makes your heart skip a beat.