The dark ambiance of the restaurant was undeniable. It was no wonder it was called Noir Restaurant—the atmosphere alone felt like a part of the experience. As the waitress explained the concept, Stella couldn’t help but feel a strange calm settle over her as she focused all her senses on the food before her. Without the usual distractions of noise and light, the taste seemed to become sharper, more vivid.
The final course was steak, served with dramatic flair. The copper plate it rested on was placed over a roaring charcoal flame, the heat so intense that special precautions had to be taken to isolate the fire. The dish was small, almost comically so, given the buildup.
Stella stared at the perfectly plated steak, the portion disappointingly minuscule, and was momentarily at a loss for words. Weston, on the other hand, showed no sign of hesitation. He simply tapped his fingers lightly on the table, signaling for her attention. “Help me cut it.”
Stella blinked, unsure if she had misheard. When Weston repeated himself, her face stiffened with coldness. “Don’t you know how to cut it yourself? Cut it yourself and eat it,” she shot back, her voice laced with a sharp edge.
Weston’s response was calm, almost too patient for her taste. He intertwined his fingers and fixed his gaze on her. “I want to eat whatever you cut.”
Her frustration grew, and her eyes narrowed. “Then don’t.”
Weston said nothing, only watching her in silence, his gaze unyielding. Stella felt a sharp pang of bitterness as a memory resurfaced—the way Weston had served Guinevere so gentlemanly the other day at Yvonne’s house. He had cut the steak for her, delivered it with care, and had been all smiles. Now, he was demanding her to do the same. Did he think she was his servant? His nanny?
Her heart grew colder with each passing moment. She refused to serve him, though a part of her wanted to lash out at his inconsiderate behavior. After a few seconds, she said, “I’ll ask the waiter to cut it for you.”
Weston stopped her with a wave of his hand, his patience clearly running out. “Forget it.” Without another word, he took the knife and sliced the steak into small pieces before sliding it across the table toward her. “Eat.”
His voice was as cold as his demeanor, the command ringing in her ears. “Eat.”
Stella’s eyes flickered with a mixture of irritation and disdain. She didn’t refuse, but her movements were slow and deliberate, and when she did take a bite, she avoided the meat altogether. She chewed the vegetables with focus, ignoring the steak entirely.
Weston’s eyes darkened as he noticed her deliberate avoidance. His displeasure was palpable, but he said nothing as they finished their meal in silence.
When the meal concluded, the waiter returned their phones. Stella, eager to check for any missed calls or texts, quickly turned hers on. She wondered if Roger had been worried about her late return. It had already been a while past her usual time, and she couldn’t shake the nagging thought that something might be wrong.
Weston’s annoyance simmered beneath the surface, but Stella was too absorbed in her own thoughts to care. She ignored him, her attention fixed on her phone as they left the restaurant.
Once they reached the parking lot, Weston’s voice broke the silence, low and warning. “There’s a car next to you.”
Before Stella could react, he grabbed her arm and pulled her aside with ease. She looked up at him, meeting his eyes for a brief moment. His gaze was full of displeasure, but she pretended not to notice. Her lips pressed together in a thin line as she continued to look at her phone, dismissing him entirely.
Just as they were about to continue walking, a hesitant voice broke through the air behind them. “Ella? Weston? Why are you two here?”
Stella froze, her body stiffening at the sound of the voice. She didn’t dare look back, but her mind raced, the voice unmistakable—Yvonne.
Sweat beaded on her palms as she focused on the man standing in front of her. Weston, as usual, remained unfazed. His gaze shifted to Yvonne, who had stopped a few feet behind Stella.
“What a coincidence,” he said, his tone casual, though it barely concealed the tension in the air.
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