đź‘‘ Rose đź‘‘
We didn't say much after we left Earl Empire.
The silence between us wasn't tense, it was loaded, the kind that had history buried inside it. My heels clicked softly against the pavement, and Charles walked just a step behind me, as if unsure whether he was allowed to walk beside me yet.
We didn't take the car.
We just walked.
No destination. No rush.
Maybe we both needed the quiet more than we realized.
The sky was overcast, the kind of grey that made everything feel softer, quieter, like the world was holding its breath.
The streets were alive: horns, voices, motion, but around us, it all faded.
Charles didn't say much, and neither did I.
Scene: victory cafe
We stopped at a quiet café tucked between two high-end boutiques. It had a minimalist exterior and mirrored windows that reflected the city back at itself. He opened the door for me without a word.
Inside, it smelled like roasted beans, fresh pastries, vanilla, cinnamon, and slow mornings.
No crowd.
Just a few people, soft jazz in the background, and golden light filtering through the glass.
We took a table by the window. I sat across from him, placing the file on the chair beside me as if it might disappear if I let it out of my sight.
Within minutes, a suited waiter appeared, notepad untouched.
"Your usual, Mr. Earl?" he asked with quiet deference.
Charles gave a lazy nod, then turned to me. "What do you like?"
I hesitated, unused to being asked. "Chamomile tea, if they have it."
"They do." He didn't even glance at the waiter. "And add brioche for her."
I raised an eyebrow. "Brioche?"
He smirked. "Raspberry. Drizzled in honey. You'll love it."
The man vanished like smoke and returned just as silently with our order.
I'd expected black coffee, something bitter to match his sarcasm. But a Shamrock Shake?
"Don't tell me you don't like it," he said, already sipping from a pastel-green drink topped with an ungodly amount of whipped cream.
I narrowed my eyes at the thing beside his glass.
It was smooth and pale, gently wobbling on the plate, drenched in delicate rose syrup with a single glazed cherry on top. It looked fancy, something I'd never seen before.
I furrowed my brow. "What is that… thing?"
Charles grinned, amused by my confusion. "That, Rose, is panna cotta."
I blinked. "Pan… what now?"
He chuckled softly. "Panna cotta. An Italian dessert, cream, sugar, and vanilla, set into a silky custard. Think of it like a soft, creamy pudding but way more elegant. It doesn't scream for attention, but it definitely knows it's good."
I studied the dessert again. "So, basically, fancy cream jelly?"
"That's one way to put it," he said with a smirk, taking a careful bite. "Sweet, smooth, and simple, but with a little attitude. Kind of like you."
He looked up at me, eyes twinkling.
I quickly looked down at my tea, trying not to smile.
---
I studied the panna cotta again, lifting the spoon with caution as if it might explode or insult me.
"Have you ever had anything that looks like it belongs in a museum?" I asked, poking the surface.
Charles leaned back, smug. "Everything I eat is a masterpiece. That's the standard."
I gave him a look. "You do realize you sound like a snob right now."
"A tasteful snob," he corrected, raising his ridiculous whipped cream topped drink like a toast. "There's a difference."
I rolled my eyes and took a bite.
Okay. It was stupidly good.
Creamy. Soft. Sweet, but not childish. It tasted expensive, like something that belonged in silk sheets and whispered conversations.
He watched me chew like he'd won a bet.
"You're enjoying it," he said smugly.
"I'm tolerating it."
"Rose, you're two bites away from falling in love. Don't lie."
I scoffed, but I couldn't help the smile tugging at my lips. "It's not that serious."
"It is. That dessert changes people."
Just as I was about to throw another sarcastic comeback, a voice interrupted us.
"Well, isn't this cozy?"
I turned and there she was.
Isabella.
She wore a soft cream satin midi dress that hugged her curves. The neckline dipped slightly, and the delicate pearl straps reflected quiet luxury. A thin rose-gold belt cinched her waist.
Her heels were blush-pink stilettos with gold studs that echoed on the marble floor.
She carried a structured mini Lady Dior bag on her elbow.
Her nails were short, almond-shaped, and painted sheer ballet pink. Her smile matched, controlled and polished.
Around her neck was a single diamond choker. One stone. No extras. Clean and precise.
She didn't sit. She didn't need to. Her presence filled the room like a cold breeze.
Charles raised a brow, unfazed. "Well, if it isn't Dior in human form."
Isabella's smile was sharp, but her eyes scanned me like I was an unwanted stain. "Charles. Still surrounding yourself with charity projects, I see?"
I shifted in my seat, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. My fingers tightened around the teacup, knuckles pale. "Still confusing kindness with pity, Isabella."
Her gaze didn't soften. "I was just surprised to see you here. This place does have a dress code." She gave me a slow once-over, voice thick with judgment. "But maybe they've lowered their standards."
A lump rose in my throat, and I forced my gaze down to my tea, focusing on the swirling steam as if it might ground me.
Charles chuckled, clearly enjoying the show. "She's the reason this place has standards now. You're welcome."
Isabella's jaw tightened. "Always picking the most interesting strays, aren't you?"
I swallowed hard. "That's rich, considering you got kicked out of Institut Le Rosey for throwing a macaron at your etiquette teacher."
Charles nearly choked on his panna cotta. "Wait, that was real?"
Isabella's smile flickered, but she recovered. "At least I have passion."
I managed a small, bitter smile. "Misguided, but passionate."
The silence that followed pressed against my chest like a weight.
Isabella tilted her head. "I won't keep you. Just came to grab something sweet."
Charles smirked. "You already did." He nodded toward me.
Her eyes darkened, lingering on me a moment longer before she turned on her heel, her stilettos clicking sharply on the marble. The tension she left behind made the air thick and hard to breathe.
I exhaled slowly, cheeks burning.
"Was that fun for you?" I asked Charles, my voice quieter than before.
"Watching a live fencing match in couture? Absolutely."