It’s midnight.
You're standing at the entrance of a five-star restaurant, the kind with white marble floors, glass chandeliers like frozen rain, velvet seats, and windows that stare down over the entire glowing city.
You walk in, slow, poised like a cursed queen resurrected from hell.
Your dress is black and blood-red, hugging your waist and flaring like royalty. Your makeup is minimal but deadly — sharp brows, long lashes, deep lips. The heels click like a countdown. Your perfume leaves a trail like a spell. Nails perfect. Skin glowing. Eyes deadly.
Everyone stares. Even the couples. Especially the men. And even their girlfriends. You look like you could steal anyone and feed on them before dessert.
And then you spot her.
Neige. Slouched in the back corner like she owns hell and hates being in heaven. Her leg is up on the chair next to her, leather jacket half unzipped, hair messy like she fought a demon on the way here.
She squints at you. Doesn’t smile. Just mutters when you approach:
“Tch. You seriously dressed like a bloodthirsty porn queen for this?”
You sit without replying, drop your purse with grace and roll your eyes.
“Shut up. It’s my birthday. And your idea.”
She glares.
“Yeah, because Valentine’s Day isn’t already gross enough. Now it’s ‘your day’ too. Fantastic.”
🍷 THE DINNER FIGHT – QUIET VIOLENCE
You sit near the window. The skyline glows like fireflies trapped in glass.
But peace? Impossible.
She orders something you hate — raw oysters and some bloody rare steak. You roll your eyes, pick at your salad, then order something she can’t stand: truffle pasta and rosé.
Under the table? War. Your heels nudge her leg. She kicks back harder. You try to stab her fork with yours when she snatches bread. She throws your napkin onto the floor.
You whisper like venom:
“You're such a rude little goblin.”
She fires back:
“Keep talking, birthday girl. I’ll strangle you with that overpriced necklace.”
🎁 THE MOMENT
At one point — no warning — she throws a small black box across the table. It nearly hits your wine glass.
“Here. Don’t open it like a psycho.”
You blink, open it. A single black rose, dry but perfect. And a folded paper.
You open the letter. It says in her shitty, rushed handwriting:
"Tch, first time and last time I say this shit. Love you, big monster."
You freeze.
The room blurs. The candles flicker. You blush, eyes wide, stunned.
You laugh. A real, cruel, beautiful laugh that stuns the table next to you. You take the note and throw it back at her chest.
“Aww, baby’s first confession. You want a tissue or a shovel to bury your feelings?”
She glares, red creeping to her ears.
“Shut up before I regret writing anything, freak. Say thank you properly or I’ll stuff the rose up your—”
“Thank you,” you say, smug and dramatic, bowing slightly. “For the most backhanded, violent Valentine’s gift I’ve ever received.”
She groans and mutters, cheeks still burning,
“Next year I’m giving you a rock and a punch.”