Page 16 of My Bloody Valentine

MAYA

Idrum my fingers on my laptop keyboard, staring at the blinking cursor on my latest review. The words won’t come. My mind drifts to Adrian’s chocolate, his touch, and that wicked promise in his eyes.

“Get it together,” I mutter, closing the laptop.

The morning sun streams through my apartment windows, but I can’t shake the memory of that dimly lit tasting room. My phone sits silent on the coffee table—no texts from him today. Part of me feels relieved, while another part aches for contact.

I walk to my kitchen and pull out my collection of artisanal chocolates. The expensive bars from Switzerland, Belgium, and France mock me with their pristine packaging. None of them hold the raw intensity of Adrian’s creations.

“This is insane.” I pick up my phone, thumb hovering over his contact information. “He’s just a chocolatier.”

But that’s a lie. How he commanded the room and knew exactly what buttons to push... A spark of fear runs through my veins. That scares me—how easily he reads me like I’m one of his recipes to perfect.

My phone buzzes with a text from my editor asking about the review deadline. Work, reality, normal life—I should focuson those, not on some dangerous game with a man who treats emotions like ingredients.

I grab my keys and head out for coffee. The crisp winter air clears my head, but as I pass a chocolate shop window, my reflection stares back at me with haunted eyes. The woman I see looks different—hungry for something beyond mere chocolate.

The bell chimes as I push open the door to the Daily Grind. The familiar scent of coffee beans should comfort me, but something feels off. The hair on my neck stands up—like someone’s eyes follow my movements.

I scan the morning crowd: two students with laptops, a businessman reading news on his tablet, and a woman in yoga gear. Nothing unusual, yet...

“The usual, Maya?” Ted, the barista, calls out.

I nod, sliding into my favorite corner spot where I can see the entrance and the street. My mind is distracted as I grab my phone. Time to stop obsessing and do some actual research on Adrian Vale.

The first search results are useless—just press releases about his boutique opening and chocolate reviews. His company website offers the standard bio: he trained in Belgium, worked for elite chocolatiers, and opened his Chicago location three years ago. There are no personal details.

My coffee arrives, and I barely acknowledge Ted’s friendly smile. Something doesn’t add up. Someone this successful should have a larger digital footprint.

I dig deeper, trying different search combinations. He has no social media presence or interviews beyond standard PR quotes about his seasonal collections. It’s like he appeared out of nowhere with perfect credentials and connections.

A shadow passes by the window. My head snaps up, but it’s just someone walking past. Still, my pulse races. I glance back at my phone.

The only personal detail I can find is that he won a junior chocolatier competition in Brussels fifteen years ago. The article is in French and includes a grainy photo that might be him. Everything before that? Blank.

The bell chimes again. A couple walks in, laughing. I jump, nearly spilling my coffee. This is ridiculous. I’m letting my imagination run wild.

But as I fixate on my phone screen, one thought keeps nagging me. How does someone so prominent leave so little trace?

The lack of information makes my stomach churn in delicious unease. I take another sip of coffee, but it tastes bitter and wrong on my tongue. Nothing tastes right anymore, not since...

My phone vibrates against the table. Adrian’s name appears on the screen.

Maya, your research won’t tell you what you want to know.

The coffee cup slips from my fingers, clattering against the saucer. I whip my head around, scanning the cafe again. Empty tables mock me. He’s not here, but he knows exactly what I’m doing.

Another text follows.

Ask me directly. I prefer honest curiosity to digital stalking.

My fingers hover over the keypad. He’s watching me fumble for a response—I can feel it. The cursor blinks, waiting.

How did you know what I was doing?”

I type, then delete it. Too defensive.

Where did you really train?

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