CHRISTOF
My driver, stopped in front of Maison Lune, and even from the curb the place looked like it had been carved out of moonlight. Frosted glass walls rose three floors high, glowing softly from within, like the building was lit by its own private constellation. Inside, candlelight shimmered against gold-trimmed mirrors, casting warm reflections across marble floors veined with silver. There was a glowing happy anniversary signage at the entrance. I was impressed.
The maître d’ bowed himself in half when we entered.
“Mr. Gustavo, Miss. Pepa, welcome to Maison Lune. And happy anniversary.”
I’d booked the entire space, every table empty except the one dressed for two at the center of the room, surrounded by cascading white orchids and flickering candles. No guests, no noise, just us
