Page 8 of Scorch

The flicker of the candle on the table pulls my focus. I’m drawn to the orange flame behind frosted glass. I reach out and run the tip of my polished fingernail around the base of the candle. I pause and note a drip of wax.

My heart races.

It’s not one of those fake electric candles, but real fire. If I took the edge of this tablecloth and touched the flame, I know exactly what would happen. First, it would smoke?—

I close my eyes and draw my hand back as if the glass itself scalded me. I hate that my mind goes there when I’m stressed or under pressure.

No.

I worked too hard and too long to go back there now. I can’t.

I won’t.

I can still hear my mother’s tearful plea while my father slammed my suitcases into the back of the car that took me to boarding school. “Why, Lydia? Why did you do it?”

I heard the questions she didn’t ask as clearly as I heard the ones she did.

Where did I go wrong?

I take another sip of wine, aware that I’ve likely only traded one vice for another, but I don’t fucking care.

I take a few minutes to look around the upscale restaurant. It’s difficult to get into Le Jardin de Lumière, but I’m excited because the name reminds me of Beauty and the Beast, my childhood favorite. Who am I kidding? It’s my favorite even now in adulthood. They’re booking six months out here, but Timur likes expensive, hard-to-get things, so it makes sense he would want to come here. I’d expect no less from him.

Quiet instrumental music plays in the background. The tables are set with fine china and crystal wine glasses, the utter picture of sophistication. The basket of fragrant, warm bread is accompanied by slabs of homemade butter topped with crystalized truffle salt. Delicious.

My phone buzzes with a text. My heart leaps, thinking it might be Timur, but when I look at the screen, I sigh.

Vera: Lydia, can you talk now?

Vera gets so caught up in her studies she doesn’t talk to me for weeks at a time, and now that she has a break, she wants to chat? I shoot her a quick response.

I can’t now, I’m meeting Timur for dinner, but I’ll call you when we’re done.

I’m still holding my phone when I hear his familiar voice behind me. I quickly tuck it in my purse.

“Lydia. Thank you for waiting so patiently.” He stands tall and imposing behind me with an air of unapproachable strength. I turn to face my handsome fiancé, once more appreciating his features are sharp and defined with high cheekbones and a strong, clean-shaven jawline. Dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, he exudes confidence and sophistication, his demeanor composed but with an icy detachment that can be intimidating to those who don’t know him. I know him, though. I know him well.

I stand and give him the full effect of my smile.

“Hi. How was your day?”

With a smile, he bends and kisses my cheek. My heart flutters at his nearness. Timur Yudin is all grace and refinement, a gentleman in every sense of the word. His hand rests on the small of my back for a brief second before he takes his seat. He always holds my chair out for me, so I stand a bit awkwardly before I realize he must’ve forgotten.

I clumsily sit in front of him.

“You’re looking quite nice tonight, Mr. Yudin,” I say flirtatiously. He smiles coldly when the waiter approaches.

Normally attentive and gentlemanly, his behavior takes me off guard. Timur addresses the waiter. “Bonjour, je voudrais une sortie, s'il vous plaît.”

I cringe when the waiter looks confused. Timur’s French needs a little work. He just accidentally ordered an exit instead of an appetizer. I don’t want to correct him in public, but he’s made a mistake.

I quickly amend. “Je voudrais commander un apéritif, s'il vous plaît.” The waiter bows and takes his leave. Timur levels his gaze at me with an air of coldness so sharp I shiver.

“Do not ever do that again,” he snaps.

“Do what?” I look at him in surprise.

“Correct me in public.”

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