Page 1 of My Bloody Valentine

1

MAYA

Iadjust my black cocktail dress, scanning the opulent ballroom of The Drake Hotel. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over displays of chocolate art that would put museum pieces to shame. A chocolate fountain cascades down seven tiers, its surface gleaming like liquid silk.

“Ms. Kendall.” A server materializes beside me with a tray of champagne flutes. “Mr. Vale requested this special vintage for you.”

The bubbles dance across my tongue, but the underlying notes catch my attention. Hints of melancholy? I close my eyes, letting my emotional-gustatorysynesthesia parse through the complex flavors.

“First time at one of Adrian Vale’s events?” A woman in red sidles up next to me, her diamond necklace catching the light.

“I review food for the Gastronome.” I don’t mention my unique ability to detect emotions in food. That tends to make people uncomfortable.

The crowd parts like the Red Sea, and there he is. Adrian Vale moves through his carefully curated wonderland with the grace of a jungle cat. His tailored black suit emphasizes broad shoulders, and his medium-length dark hair is styled into aquiff, faded on the sides. But his eyes draw me in—bright blue with flecks of gold, studying everything and everyone with laser focus.

He stops at each display to explain the inspiration behind his creations. His rich, smooth voice carries across the room, reminding me of the chocolates he crafts.

“This piece represents the duality of love,” he says, gesturing to a sculpture of intertwined hearts—one pristine white chocolate, the other dark as night. “Sweet and bitter, pleasure and pain.”

I reach for one of his signature truffles from a nearby display. The chocolate shell gives way with a satisfying crack. The ganache inside spreads across my tongue and?—

Empty. Hollow. A void where emotion should be.

I’ve tasted thousands of creations, but never one so soulless. It’s a masterclass in technical skill, but something vital is missing. It’s like biting into a corpse.

“What are your thoughts on my humble offerings?” His voice startles me. Adrian Vale stands before me, one eyebrow raised. He’s taller than I realized and must be over six feet two.

Our eyes connect. “Your technique is impeccable, Mr. Vale. The tempering, the shell-to-filling ratio, the complexity of flavors...” I take another bite, letting the chocolate melt on my tongue. “But something is missing.”

His eyes narrow, though his polite smile remains fixed. “Missing?”

“Soul.” I set the half-eaten truffle on a passing tray. “These chocolates are empty. They were created by someone who doesn’t feel joy, love, or passion.”

A flash of something sinister crosses his features, gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it.

“How fascinating.” He steps closer, invading my personal space. The scent of cocoa and amber clings to him. “And whatmakes you such an expert on the emotional content of chocolate, Ms. Kendall?”

I should back away and soften my critique, but something in his intense stare compels honesty.

“I taste emotions in food.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “It’s a form of synesthesia. And your chocolates? They’re technically perfect but emotionally barren. Like they were made through some dark ritual rather than with love.”

Instead of offense, a smile blooms on his face. His eyes shine with an almost predatory gleam.

“Dark ritual?” He issues a low chuckle, the sound sending a chill through me. “Now, that is an interesting choice of words.” He plucks a fresh truffle from a nearby display. “Tell me, what emotions do you taste in this one?”

The chocolate touches my lips and—emptiness, void, hunger. Underneath it all, something else. Something that freezes me in place.

“Nothing.” I swallow hard. “And everything.”

His smile widens. “Ms. Kendall, we must talk longer about your unique palate.”

“Perhaps we could discuss this further in my private tasting room?” Adrian’s fingers brush mine as he takes my empty champagne flute. “I have some experimental pieces that might challenge your... unique perspective.”

A sudden wave of cold rushes over me that is not associated with the room’s temperature. “I have three more events to review tonight.”

“Cancel them.” His tone dips intimately. “I’ll make it worth your while. After all, how often do you encounter chocolates that speak to you on such a visceral level?”

“You mean the lack of speaking?”

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