Page 78 of My Bloody Valentine

Adrian catches my eye, a silent warning to stay calm. Amelia admires the wine collection, oblivious to the tension crackling through the room.

“Well,” Gabe stands smoothly, adjusting his cuffs. “We can’t keep a city official waiting. Adrian, perhaps you’d like to share that ’86 vintage with the ladies while I handle this?”

“Of course.” Adrian’s voice remains perfectly steady. “I’d be happy to explain why it’s inferior to the ’82.”

I force a laugh, though my heart pounds against my ribs. One wrong move, one loose floorboard, and everything could unravel.

“Don’t be too long,” Amelia calls after Gabe, her cheeks still flushed from wine and attraction. “You promised to tell me more about that jazz collection upstairs.”

Gabe flashes her a charming smile. “I won’t keep you waiting, beautiful.” He follows the waiter up the stairs, his movements unhurried and confident.

I take a long sip of wine, fighting to keep my hands steady. Above us, the jazz continues to play, and I wonder if the inspector, questioning Gabe about health codes and permits, can imagine what horrors lurk in this club.

I watch Adrian swirl his wine, discussing the merits of different vintages so easily that you’d never guess what might be happening upstairs. His hand rests casually on my knee, thumb stroking small circles that both comfort and heighten my anxiety.

“The ’86 really opens up after about thirty minutes,” he explains to Amelia, who nods enthusiastically.

My fingers clench around my glass as footsteps sound on the stairs. Gabe appears as relaxed as when he left, straightening his cuffs as he descends.

“Everything okay up there?” Amelia asks, leaning forward with interest.

Gabe slides back into his seat, picking up his wine glass. “Just some nonsense about a smell complaint. Walked the inspector through the whole place—didn’t find anything unusual. Probably one of our competitors trying to cause trouble.”

“Or drunk customers playing pranks,” Adrian adds, reaching for the bottle.

“Exactly.” Gabe’s eyes meet mine briefly before he turns back to Amelia. “Now, where were we? Ah yes, you were telling me about your studio.”

I take a slow breath, willing my racing heart to calm. Adrian’s hand squeezes my knee gently under the table. I summon the strength to smile as Amelia launches into an animated description of her workspace.

I sip my wine, letting the warmth spread through my chest as the jazz drifts from above. The saxophone’s mournful wail mingles with piano keys, creating a haunting melody that seems to seep into the stone walls of the cellar. Each note floats down like a delicate reminder of the normal world above us—a world of cocktails, dancing, and carefree laughter.

But I know what lies beneath those polished floorboards where the band plays. The thought makes my fingers tighten around the stem of my wine glass. While tourists and music lovers sway to sultry rhythms, they have no idea they’re dancing above Gabe’s carefully preserved collection.

Adrian’s thumb traces another circle on my knee, grounding me in the present moment. I focus on the way Amelia leans toward Gabe, completely unaware that this man is a killer.

The music shifts to something slower, more sensual. The bass thrums through the ceiling. I imagine it resonating through those hidden spaces, through bone and flesh preserved with meticulous care. Each note seems to pulse with secrets, with whispered confessions that never reach the surface.

“You okay?” Adrian murmurs, his lips brushing my ear.

I nod, taking another sip of wine. The jazz continues its seductive melody above us, a beautiful mask for the horror it conceals—like Adrian’s chocolates or Gabe’s charming smile—lovely things that hide wicked truths.

33

MAYA

It’s been two weeks of bliss with Adrian when I’m sitting at my desk, scrolling through industry news, when a headline catches my eye: “Renowned Chocolatier Thomas Laurent Questions Vale’s Methods.” My heart skips a beat.

“There’s something not quite right about those Valentine’s collections,” Laurent states in the article. “The FDA has strict regulations about ingredients, yet Vale refuses to disclose his full list.”

My fingers tremble as I read further. Laurent plans to hire private investigators to look into Adrian’s supply chain and manufacturing processes.

I grab my phone to text Adrian, but I pause. The last thing I want is to cause him unnecessary stress, but he needs to know.

“Have you seen the Chocolate Weekly article?” I type.

Adrian’s response comes instantly. “Laurent’s always been jealous. Don’t worry.”

But I do worry. I’ve tasted Laurent’s creations before—they’re technically perfect but lack Adrian’s emotional depth. Now I understand why. Laurent can’t replicate that.

---