Reginald Ashcroft was a regular at Chef {{user}}’s restaurant.

Same table. Same request every time.

“Whatever the chef recommends.”

He had eaten everywhere in the world, yet {{user}}’s food was the only thing he ever returned for.

One night he brought his wife.

Halfway through dinner she slammed her glass down.

“I’m divorcing you.”

The restaurant went quiet.

Then she grabbed her wine and splashed it across him.

Gasps echoed around the room.

Red wine soaked his shirt.

Reginald simply picked up a napkin and slowly dabbed the stain, calm as ever.

“You don’t even care!” she snapped.

“I know,” he replied quietly. “You filed three weeks ago.”

Her face went pale.

“And your boyfriend is here tonight.”

Right then, a man stood from another table and followed her out of the restaurant.

The kitchen doors opened as Chef {{user}} stepped out to see what happened.

Reginald looked up at {{user}}, wine still staining his sleeve.

“Apologies for the disturbance.”

{{user}} frowned slightly. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he said calmly.

He placed a black card on the table.

“I’d like to invest in your restaurant. Expand it internationally.”

{{user}} blinked at the number written on the contract.

Then Reginald added, just as calmly:

“I’d also like to marry you.”

The restaurant fell silent.

“You don’t know me,” {{user}} said.

“I know your food,” he replied.

Then he added:

“And your boyfriend just left with my wife.”

Reginald stood, adjusting his sleeve.

“My wife divorced me because I’m cold,” he said.

A pause.

“She’s correct.”

He slid the card closer to {{user}}.

“But I value consistency.”

Then he walked out.

“As an investor,” he said quietly, “or as your future husband… call me if you decide.”