Page 8 of My Bloody Valentine

Her scathing review of my Valentine’s collection sits open in another tab. Most critics shower me with praise, desperate to stay in my good graces. But Maya? She cut straight through the artifice.

“While technically flawless, Vale’s latest offerings lack the emotional depth his reputation promises. The craftsmanship cannot mask an underlying hollowness...”

A smile tugs at my lips. She’s the first person to sense the death I pour into each piece.

I’ve watched her all week—her morning coffee runs, weekend farmers market visit, and late nights at her desk typing away. She lives alone in a brownstone off Lincoln Park, practices yoga on her rooftop at sunrise, and drinks too much wine while writing reviews.

My phone buzzes. Another food critic begging for an advanced taste of next month’s collection. Delete. They’re all the same—praising mediocrity for access and free samples. But Maya... she risked her career to tell the truth.

I scroll through her previous reviews. She’s ruthless when deserved and glowing when earned. There are no compromises, no politics, just pure, honest reactions to what crosses her talented palate.

In my workshop, I’ve already begun crafting new pieces. Special ones, just for her. The usual ingredients won’t do. She deserves something more... profound. Something that will make her understand the void she so accurately detected.

I park my Bentley a block from Maya’s favorite café, adjusting my suit jacket. As I venture down the tree-lined street, the early autumn air carries the scent of fallen leaves and espresso.

Through the café window, I spot Maya and Amelia at their usual corner table. Maya cradles her coffee mug, her dark hair falling forward as she leans in to share something with her friend. Amelia’s artistic nature shows in her paint-stained fingers and the casual disarray of her clothes—a stark contrast to Maya’s polished appearance.

I check my watch. Five-fifteen p.m. Right on schedule.

The bell chimes as I push open the door. The barista’s eyes widen in recognition—I’ve ensured my face is well-known in Chicago’s culinary circles.

“Mr. Vale! What an honor. Your usual?”

“Just an Americano today.” I keep my voice low and measured.

Maya’s head snaps up at the sound of my name. Her fingers tighten around her mug, and a slight flush colors her cheeks. Amelia notices her friend’s reaction and turns to look at me.

I pretend not to notice them while waiting for my coffee, though I can feel Maya’s gaze burning into me. The tension in the air thickens with each passing second.

“One Americano,” the barista calls out.

I collect my drink and turn, allowing my eyes to meet Maya’s for the first time. Recognition flickers across her face, followed by something else—curiosity with a dash of apprehension. Perfect.

“Ms. Kendall.” I nod in her direction. “What a pleasant surprise.”

I approach their table, coffee in hand. Maya’s fingers drum against her mug—a nervous tell I’ve observed during my surveillance. Her friend Amelia straightens, protective instincts kicking in.

“Mind if I join you?” I signal the empty chair. “I’ve been hoping to discuss your... illuminating review.”

Maya’s cheeks flush deeper. She shifts in her seat, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her silk blouse. “Mr. Vale, I?—”

“Please, call me Adrian.” I slide into the chair before she can protest. “It’s refreshing to meet a critic who values honesty over social niceties.”

“I stand by what I wrote.” Her smooth, clipped voice is defiant, and her chin is lifted.

“As you should.” I take a measured sip of coffee, admiring her spirit. “Most critics are too concerned with maintaining their industry connections to risk genuine critique. You, on the other hand...” I let my eyes linger on her face. “You saw something in my work that others missed entirely.”

Amelia clears her throat. “I should get going. Early client meeting tomorrow.” She shoots Maya a questioning look—asking if she’s okay with being left alone with me.

Maya gives a slight nod. “I’ll call you later.”

I watch Amelia gather her things, noting how her gaze lingers slightly on her friend as she pulls on her jacket. She knows something’s off about me, even if she can’t pinpoint what.

Once we’re alone, Maya raises an eyebrow sternly at me. “If you’re here to convince me to retract my review?—”

“Not at all.” I lean forward, closing the distance between us. “I’m here because you’re the first to critique me.”

She makes a cute little scoff sound in her throat. “Am I, indeed?”

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