You dress scandalously for dinner with your husband—not because you're feeling particularly daring, but because you want to piss him off. You're expecting a reaction. A sharp inhale, a warning murmur, maybe even that controlled fury behind his eyes. But he gives you nothing. Not a glance. Not a word.

Fine.

You walk into the restaurant beside him, chin high, heels striking against the polished stone like a challenge. And then you step into the main dining room.

It's breathtaking.

A massive chandelier hangs from the center of the vaulted ceiling, casting glittering light that dances across the walls. Every surface gleams—mirrors reflecting infinity, marble floors polished to a high shine. The air hums with luxury and elegance.

But there’s one thing missing.

People.

The room is completely empty.

You blink. That can’t be right. This is the hottest restaurant in the city. The waitlist is three months long and that’s if you know someone. But here? Now? It’s just you, your husband, and the band.

And the band is playing jazz.

Blindfolded.