Dinner above the city
1355 Words
Chapter Six
Dinner Above the City
By seven o’clock, the city had surrendered to rain again.
Neon and headlights smeared across the wet streets below, turning the skyline into a blurred watercolor of gold and blue. From the backseat of the car, Seraphina watched the light slide past the tinted windows, her fingers pressed together in her lap. Beside her, the silence wasn’t empty. It was heavy, deliberate, the kind that made her hyperaware of her own breathing.
Mira had spent almost an hour fussing over her, pinning, smoothing, stepping back with a critical eye despite Seraphina’s protests that she was “only going to dinner.”
“Only dinner,” Mira had muttered, like the words were an insult. “With Alexander Blackwood.”
Annoying.
“You’re nervous,” Mira had said while fastening the last clasp at the back of her dress.
“I’m tired.”
“You changed outfits three times.”
“That proves nothing.”
Mira hadn’t looked convinced.
Now, as the car eased into the private entrance beneath Blackwood Tower, Seraphina found herself exhaling without permission. The building rose out of the darkness like something carved from glass and steel, cold light spilling from its upper floors into the low-hanging clouds. It didn’t beg for attention. It didn’t need to.
Very Alexander.
A valet opened her door before she could reach for the handle.
“Miss Vale.”
The lobby upstairs was wrong in the way expensive things often were—too quiet, too perfect. No chatter. No gold-leaf excess. No marble busts or gaudy chandeliers like the Vale estate used to display.
Everything here felt measured.
Minimalist marble floors. Soft, recessed lighting. Clean lines that made the space feel larger than it was.
Power without performance.
Interesting.
“Mr. Blackwood is expecting you,” the attendant said, voice low, efficient.
Of course he was.
The private elevator slid shut around her, and the city fell away as the numbers climbed. Her reflection stared back from the mirrored walls—pale skin, dark silk dress, eyes more tired than she cared to admit. For half a second, the thought of turning around felt tempting.
Not because she feared Alexander.
Because she still didn’t know what he wanted from her.
The doors opened with barely a sound.
He was waiting.
Alexander stood just inside the penthouse entrance, one shoulder leaning against the frame like he had all the time in the world. Black shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. No tie. The looseness of it made him look less like a CEO and more like something dangerous that had let its guard down.
Worse, somehow.
“Miss Vale,” he said, voice low and even.
“You own a terrifyingly quiet building.”
A faint smile touched his mouth as he stepped aside. “I could add musicians if necessary.”
“Please don’t.”
The doors closed behind her with a soft, final click.
The penthouse was exactly what she’d expected—vast, open, built for someone who didn’t need to fill space with clutter. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like a living painting. Dark leather, matte wood, steel accents. No warmth, but no coldness either. Just control.
Beautiful in a way that felt lonely.
She drifted toward the windows without meaning to. Below, the skyline stretched endlessly, rain turning every light into a halo.
“You live here alone?” she asked.
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No invitation for follow-up.
Alexander moved toward the dining area, where a table had been set with quiet precision. No staff lingered. No silver cloches, no exaggerated service.
Again—interesting.
“You dismissed the staff?”
“I prefer privacy.”
The answer settled in the air, heavier than it should have been.
She sat across from him, the chair cool against her palms. Soft jazz drifted from somewhere unseen, low enough to be felt more than heard. For the first time in months, there was no audience. No board members. No family. No one dissecting her posture, her color, her breathing.
It was unsettling.
Alexander poured wine into her glass with a practiced hand before sitting.
“You look less exhausted tonight,” he said.
“There’s no ballroom full of investors staring at me.”
“That helps.”
The conversation came easier than she’d expected. Not forced, not polite small talk. He asked about architecture, about a book she’d mentioned once in passing, about a city she’d traveled to years ago. He listened the way people did when they actually wanted the answer.
And never once did he ask:
How are you feeling?
Are the treatments working?
Do you need to sit down?
She noticed.
“You avoid mentioning it,” she said suddenly, halfway through the meal.
Alexander paused, wine glass halfway to his lips. “Mentioning what?”
“My condition.”
The silence wasn’t awkward. It was calculated.
“You hear enough about it already,” he said simply.
Her fingers stilled against the stem of her glass.
Most people couldn’t help it. The illness became the filter through which every conversation passed, even when they tried to hide it. Pity, caution, forced cheerfulness—it was exhausting.
Alexander didn’t do that.
He ignored it on purpose.
Not cruelly.
Deliberately.
And somehow, that was worse.
Or better.
She couldn’t decide.
“You’re different from what I expected,” she admitted quietly.
His gaze didn’t waver. “Disappointed?”
“Suspicious.”
That almost earned a laugh. Almost.
Thunder rolled faintly outside, low and distant. The rain against the glass softened the edges of the room, made the silence between them feel less sharp.
Strange.
Everything about tonight felt strange.
After dinner, he led her to the terrace.
Cold air hit her immediately, sharp with the scent of rain and ozone. The city sprawled below, endless and indifferent. She stepped closer to the glass railing, the wind tugging at her hair.
“You can see the entire city from here.”
“That’s the idea.”
She glanced at him. “Do you enjoy reminding yourself you own half of it?”
“I own considerably less than half.”
The dryness of his answer caught her off guard, and a quiet laugh slipped out before she could stop it.
Alexander stilled.
It was small, but she saw it—the way his posture shifted, like the sound had surprised him too.
The moment stretched too long.
Too aware.
Too quiet.
Then his expression changed.
“You shouldn’t trust me so easily.”
The words landed out of nowhere.
“What?”
He didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed fixed on the city lights below. “You agreed to dinner very quickly.”
“And that concerns you?”
“It should concern you.”
The air shifted. Not with threat, but with something colder.
Honesty.
Seraphina studied him now, really studied him. “What exactly are you warning me about, Mr. Blackwood?”
Finally, he looked at her.
Dark eyes, unreadable, reflecting the city like broken glass.
“For someone raised around powerful people,” he said softly, “you seem surprisingly willing to walk into dangerous situations.”
Silence.
The wind moved through her hair. The skyline shimmered below, indifferent.
Then it hit—sudden, sharp, like the floor had tilted.
Dizziness.
Her hand slipped against the railing.
Alexander moved before she could think. One arm caught her waist, steady and unyielding, pulling her back before she could fall.
The world righted itself, but her pulse hadn’t.
“I’m fine,” she said automatically, the lie automatic after years of practice.
His grip didn’t loosen. “You almost collapsed.”
“It happens.”
He stared down at her, and for the first time, she couldn’t read him at all. No anger. No pity.
Something else.
Quieter.
More dangerous.
“You shouldn’t say that like it’s normal,” he said softly.
And for some reason, that—more than anything else tonight—made something in her chest tighten.
Because it was the first time in years that someone had said it.
- Writer
