Chapter 9
I met with Enzo Woods at The Big Mediterranean at two-thirty. I stepped into the reception early, my pulse quickening as I wondered if they’d taken my reservation as a joke. Behind the desk, a woman in a striking red satin couture gown glanced up, her fingers gliding across an iPad. I thought for a heartbeat she wouldn’t let me in, but then she gave a slight nod once she found my name and, with a polished smile, gestured for me to enter.
“Please, Miss. You can wait for your appointment inside. We’ve prepared a table for you in the VIP area, asrequested.”
As I trailed behind her into the room, the space seemed to swallow me whole. The Big Mediterranean had no ornate decor, just stark white walls, a ceiling that stretched out like a blank page, and floors polished to an almost blinding sheen. The kind of sterile emptiness that only the wealthy could call luxury, as if stripping everything down to nothing could somehow signal taste.
There were only six tables in the whole place—two with couples leaning in close, one crowded with a group of eight or more, and two standing empty. The woman in red led me up a floating staircase, each glass step jutting out from the wall without any visible support.
I couldn’t stop the thought from creeping in. What if the steps snapped under my weight?
Probably irrational, sure, but there was something deeply unsettling about the idea.
I could almost feel it—the sudden, sickening lurch of glass breaking free, and all those eyes turning not to help, but to watch the spectacle, another poor soul who didn’t belong in a place built to make people like me feel fragile. I shook my head, trying to get rid of the thought.
I did belong there.
I was a Cutnam student. I had won the Chance scholarship. I was a Saidi employee, and there was no bigger status.
At the top, a glass platform hovered over the main dining area below. We stepped out onto it, walking above the diners, and made our way to a table positioned at the centre of this transparent stage.
That was the problem. Everything in that damn place was made of glass. Yes, even the floor I was standing on. Below, there were a dozen people, excluding the waiters. And I waswearing a short, flouncy skirt. Fucking hell.
I’d had the good sense to change outfits before the date. My work clothes were fine, but I wanted to step it up a notch. I knew The Big Mediterranean was a classy place, and nothing says elegance quite like a little black dress. Not that I’m saying it—Audrey Hepburn does. If the clacking of my heels on the glass made any of the diners look up and see my… Well, I don’t want to know.
I’d barely made it to my table when a trio of waiters materialised beside me like they’d been lying in wait. The one on the left pulled out my chair with a silent nod, his eyes fixed straight ahead as I sat, crossing my legs. Then, like clockwork, he resumed his spot, not a flicker of emotion crossing his face. I swallowed. A fourth waiter slid in, set down a menu, and vanished just as quickly. I tried to skim the pages, but it was like trying to read with three puppets breathing down my neck. Not that I was focused on them anyway. Or about anything else, to be honest, because I had just realised the perfect vantage point this table offered: a clear view of the entrance. Who cares about the waiters standing guard when the man of your dreams has just walked through the door?
Enzo Woods and I had known each other for almost two years. Technically, we were both enrolled at Cutnam, but Enzo wasn’t there to study.
For him, University was just a way to kill time between the parties and the booze, and also perhaps a way to meet cool people outside of his circle. He’d drift in whenever the mood struck him, stroll into exams a few minutes late empty-handed, and was always the first one to leave.
One thing was painfully clear: I needed Cutnam. I needed those top grades, I needed my spot in the Chance program.But Enzo? He didn’t need any of that. His fate was already sealed.
But then there were those nights I’d have to peel myself away from the pub while everyone else was still dancing and laughing, books waiting for me back in my tiny room. And there he’d be; he’d catch my eye just as I was leaving, toss out a casual, “Leaving so soon? Let me walk you home, Vera.”
I never let him walk me home.
Enzo was on another level, far away from mine, no matter how hard I tried to make it seem like I was just like him. Like I belonged effortlessly.
I tried to resist his charm. Because he’s one of those people with that X-factor, the ones who turn heads wherever they go, who fill a room full of people just by tossing a smile.
He could have them all, but he wouldn’t have me. Not yet, anyway. Not until I got to his level. But now, the scholarship was mine, and Enzo was, no doubt, a prize worth vying for.
Even the woman in red at The Big Mediterranean couldn’t ignore it. Her cheeks flushed with a mix of envy and intrigue as she took him in. I could almost hear her internal monologue: Smart, charming, rich, and ridiculously handsome. What a catch!
I’d thought the same many times before.
Enzo had asked me out a few months back. I’d turned him down, but this time I agreed after a fair amount of second-guessing. So, of course, fate decided to hand me a cosmic joke and make Friday one of the messiest days of my life, almost as if to say,here you go, V, for making Mr. Perfect Man wait. Enjoy this one!
And there he was, Mr Perfect Man, standing before me with a grin that could light up the whole room and obliviousto anything that was happening to me.
We exchanged a hug, his smile big as he said: “Good afternoon. Have you been waiting long? You look stunning, Vera.”
A tight knot formed in my belly. Damn you, butterflies.
“Thanks,” I replied.
Enzo stood there in a suit—white shirt with the top button undone, a black blazer that hung just right. This wasn’t the Enzo I knew, the guy who treated academic ceremonies like an inconvenience and dressed like he’d just rolled out of bed. His hair, usually a dishevelled mess, was slicked back, save for a rebellious strand that tumbled over his forehead, James Dean-style. Heat rose to my cheeks. He didn’t have the right to look this good.
