Page 31 of My Bloody Valentine

Will do. See you at seven

Having plans for Valentines night makes me feel more in control. Adrian can’t trap me into a date or keep me longer than necessary if I have somewhere else to be. I check the time—three hours until I face him again. Just enough time to shower, dress, and steel my nerves for whatever story he plans to cook up about the blood in his fridge.

I stand before my closet, fingers trailing over fabrics as I consider my options. This meeting must scream “professional food critic,” not “woman who’s been intimately entangled with a dangerous chocolatier.”

My charcoal pencil skirt and cream silk blouse make the cut. Conservative and refined, this outfit is what I wear to five-star restaurant reviews and important editorial meetings. I slip on sheer stockings, checking for runs, before stepping into my most practical black heels.

I sweep my hair into a tight chignon—no loose, romantic tendrils today. My makeup is minimal and precise: matte foundation, subtle rose lipstick, and just enough mascara to look polished without being provocative.

“Get answers and get out,” I tell my reflection, fastening small pearl studs in my ears. “Keep it professional.”

A text lights up my phone screen from Adrian.

Looking forward to our lunch.

I ignore how my stomach flips at his words and tuck my recorder into my leather portfolio case along with a fresh notebook. If he’s finally ready to explain himself, I’ll document everything.

The black lilies watch me from their vase as I gather my things. Their petals seem darker now, almost consuming the red roses they’re paired with. I shake off the chill that runs down my spine. It’s just flowers. Just lunch. Just answers.

I check my appearance one final time. The woman in the mirror looks composed, professional, and untouchable. Perfect. No one would guess she’s dreamed of being bound and taken by the murderer she’s meeting. No one would know how his darkness calls to her.

My Uber app shows the car is five minutes away—just enough time to touch up my lipstick and straighten my skirt. I’ve interviewed countless chefs and restaurant owners. This is no different. I’m Maya Kendall, a respected food critic, not his plaything.

Not anymore.

14

ADRIAN

Icheck my watch again, pacing between the gleaming display cases. The boutique bustles with the usual lunch crowd, but my attention remains fixed on the door. My staff handles the customers with practiced ease while I wait near the back.

"Mr. Vale, would you like us to hold any special items aside?" Sarah, my newest employee, approaches with a clipboard.

"No. Continue as usual. I have a private consultation upstairs."

The weight of the key card in my pocket reminds me of what's to come. The Captivity Suite waits, ready. I've prepared it meticulously for Maya—fresh linens, a stocked kitchen, her favorite jasmine tea—everything she'll need for an extended stay.

My phone buzzes. Maya.

Running five minutes late. Traffic.

I smile, typing back a response.

Take your time.

The bell above the door chimes and there she is—Maya in a crisp blazer and pencil skirt, looking every bit the professional food writer. But I see past the facade to the darkness lurking beneath. The way she subconsciously licks her lips when our eyes meet. How her pupils dilate despite her attempts to maintain distance.

"Adrian." She clutches her leather portfolio like a shield.

"Follow me." I lead her toward the private elevator, my hand hovering at the small of her back without touching it. "I have something special to show you upstairs."

The elevator doors slide shut, sealing us in together. Maya's breath quickens as we ascend, though she tries to hide it. She has no idea she won't be leaving when lunch ends, that this elevator ride marks the beginning of her captivity—and our true connection.

I watch her reflection in the polished doors. Soon, she'll understand. Soon, she'll see that we're the same.

I guide Maya into the private dining room adjacent to my kitchen, where sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows. The table is set with crisp white linens and silver, a bottle of Bordeaux breathing nearby.

"Please, sit." I pull out her chair, noting how she hesitates. "I've prepared coq au vin. An old family recipe."

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