The Bentley had been waiting outside the Nightingale Diner for twenty minutes — a solid twenty minutes, like it was staking its claim on the block without a single care for the world around it. This wasn't a car that needed to shout to be noticed; it was one that demanded attention just by existing.
Matte black paint, flawless to the point that the evening streetlights bounced off it like ripples on still water. Windows tinted so dark, it was impossible to tell who was inside — or if there was even anyone behind that mirror-like surface at all. The air around the car seemed heavier, like it carried a kind of silent authority, the kind that made folks on the sidewalk pause mid-step, phones raising for a quick snap, curiosity peaking despite themselves.
From the kitchen window, Avery caught sight of the driver. Tall. Impeccably dressed in a crisp black suit that looked tailored to his lean frame, as if every thread had been sewn with precision. Not a single crease, not a hint of looseness. He didn't lean against the car or shift weight from foot to foot — he stood straight, motionless like a sentinel. His black leather gloves hugged his hands, subtle but exacting, like a craftsman's tools ready for action.
Inside the diner, Avery's Caesar salad — her masterpiece — rested under the heat lamp on the pass counter, glowing softly like a trophy. The romaine was crisp and glistening under a thin coat of dressing that shimmered in the kitchen light. Croutons sat stacked with military precision, golden and crunchy. Parmesan was curled into delicate ribbons, almost like they'd been dusted on by an artist's hand rather than a cook's.
Her signature dish. Tonight, it was the prize.
The diner manager appeared beside her, eyeing the clock on the wall with a practiced impatience. "Twenty minutes and counting. They're still out front. You ready to hand it over?"
Avery slid her fingers under the warm plate, steadying it with care. "Yeah. Let's go."
Priscilla scoffed nearby, crossing her arms. "Who the hell waits twenty minutes for a salad?"
Ammy rolled her eyes in response, never looking up from the chopping board. "Someone who knows the difference between food and art."
Andre smirked from the prep station, nudging her. "Bet you five bucks you get a smile out of the guy."
Avery gave him a flat look, tightening her grip on the plate. "Don't hold your breath."
She pushed through the swinging kitchen door into the cool evening air.
The blast of the diner's kitchen heat surrendered instantly to the crisp bite of fall creeping in. Avery's breath puffed in soft clouds as she moved toward the sleek black vehicle parked just under the streetlamp, the world around her dimming in contrast to the glare of the heat lamp behind her.
The driver's eyes met hers the moment she stepped into the streetlight. No surprise, no hesitation — just a smooth, calculated glide forward. He didn't speak her name or offer a greeting. His gaze shifted briefly to the plate she held, like he was confirming the authenticity of something rare and valuable.
"Delivery?" His voice was quiet, precise, carrying the weight of someone who'd never been told no.
"Yes."
His gloved hands moved with practiced care, inspecting the seal on the plate — a mere three seconds — before sliding it into a slim, black leather carrier designed for one dish. The sound of the case closing was almost reverent, like locking away a secret.
"Appreciated," he said simply, then turned and melted back toward the Bentley.
The door shut with a muted thud and the car glided away into the evening traffic as silently as it had arrived.
⸻
Back inside the diner, Ammy hovered near the pass, her eyes wide with curiosity. "So? What did he say?"
Avery shrugged, wiping her hands on her apron. "Nothing important."
Andre shook his head, still smiling. "Still — someone from Blackstone Global wanted your Caesar salad. That's not nothing."
Priscilla scoffed. "It's just lettuce."
Avery didn't respond. Deep down, she knew it wasn't just lettuce. Somewhere far above the city, in towers of glass and steel, someone lived a life worlds away from hers. And they'd just asked for a bite of something she'd made.
That thought settled heavy in her chest.
⸻
Hours later, the salad arrived in Xavier Stone's office — sharp, cold, and clinical — like everything else in his world.
Kellan set the black leather case on the edge of the sleek glass desk with care. "From Nightingale Diner. Straight from the chef."
Dana, the secretary, had signed for it downstairs and passed it along. Reliable and efficient, she was one of the few people Xavier trusted — and one of the few women allowed inside his tightly controlled orbit. The tabloids loved to spin stories about how Xavier Stone kept women at arm's length, but the truth was simple: focus required discipline, and discipline demanded removing distractions.
Except Dana wasn't a distraction. She was a weapon. And she had Scarlett's approval, which in Xavier's world made her untouchable.
Kellan flipped open the case just long enough to peek at the pristine plating before snapping it shut. "Still perfect."
"Set it on the table," Xavier said.
⸻
The rest of the day blurred into corporate monotony — quarterly reviews, security updates, shareholder calls, legal debates about meaningless phrasing.
Then his phone buzzed with a group call — Liam, Marcus, Blake.
He answered out of habit, if not interest.
"Stone," Liam's voice snapped through the line, clipped and commanding. "Club Aurelia tonight. No excuses."
"No."
"Yes."
"Not tonight."
Blake's slow chuckle. "You missed the last three nights. People think you've been replaced by an algorithm."
Xavier sighed, about to hang up, but Liam's voice came again, colder. "Eight o'clock. Don't make us send a car."
Then the line went dead.
⸻
By sunset, the city bathed in gold, Xavier stood in his office by the window. The skyline stretched endlessly, sharp and majestic against the fading light.
"Set it," he told Kellan.
The small dining table near the window was set precisely: white linen stretched tight, silverware aligned with surgical exactness, a crystal water glass catching the last shards of sunlight.
The Caesar salad rested in the center — untouched, pristine.
Xavier loosened his tie, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and sat down.
The fork felt cool, weighty in his hand.
Outside, the city thrummed quietly.
He lifted the first bite.