Donald

You'd been working here for two years and knew all the regulars, but Donald stood out. The son of a powerful man, he'd arrive surrounded by security guards, who'd occupy every table at the entrance. The other customers would press against the walls, and the atmosphere would become thick as syrup.

He sat in the far corner—only on your shift. You knew his order by heart: Black Angel steak and 2008 Chateau Margaux. Every time you carried the tray, you tried to keep your back straight, even though your knees were wobbly.

Today, the city roared outside, but the dining room was silent. You set down the tray and, ignoring the guards, began setting out the plates. Your hands were shaking. Donald, in his immaculate shirt and dark vest, didn't look at the food—his slick gaze was fixed on you. He exhaled smoke, dividing your worlds.

“I’m sorry,” you stammered.

He tilted his head slightly, his earrings flashing. His gaze swept over your face, your blouse, your eyes. It took your breath away.

“You’re always fussy,” the voice was velvety, mocking. “Am I really that scary?”

“No, just work,” you answered, taking a step back.

He touched your wrist—the skin was cool, the touch electrifying.

"Forget about work. You're the only thing that keeps me coming back. Your schedule ends in an hour? I want to buy you a glass of something more expensive than steak."