The Mistress: Her revenge [18+]

Ch. 22

ESMERALDA BERTILLON

The five-star restaurant exuded an air of effortless sophistication as I approached, its sleek exterior understated, yet undeniably luxurious. The large glass doors reflected the soft glow of amber lighting from within, casting a warm invitation that settled in my chest. I paused briefly, smoothing my dress, and took a steadying breath before stepping inside.

The ambiance washed over me instantly—a delicate balance of refinement and comfort. Plush leather chairs sat nestled against mahogany tables draped in crisp linens. Soft lighting illuminated the room, highlighting the opulence without overwhelming it. The gentle hum of refined conversation blended with the notes of a distant piano, and I could almost believe this was a simple evening out.

But it wasn't. This dinner meant more than just idle pleasantries. It was a critical step in my plan, a step I couldn't afford to stumble on.

I straightened my posture, heart fluttering between excitement and a dull, persistent nervousness. I needed to project calm, composure—confidence. He had to see me as trustworthy, someone worthy of the opportunity I was angling for.

The waiter approached with a courteous bow. "Good evening, ma'am. Mr. Donovan is expecting you. Please, follow me."

I offered a polite nod, falling into step behind him, my heels clicking against the polished marble floor with quiet precision. The air was rich with the scent of gourmet dishes—truffle oil, freshly baked bread, seared meat—mingling with the faint perfume of roses from a nearby arrangement.

We wove through the tables until we reached a more secluded corner. There he was, standing as we approached, the sharp lines of his tailored navy suit perfectly accentuating his form. His eyes lit up when they met mine, a flicker of approval in his gaze.

"Esmeralda," he greeted warmly, his deep voice smooth like aged bourbon. He extended his hand, and I took it, his grip firm yet controlled. "You look stunning tonight."

"Thank you, Mr. Donovan," I replied, a smile carefully fixed on my face as I shook his hand, already knowing the next move before it came.

"Please," he said, gesturing to the seat opposite him, "call me James."

I slipped into the chair with grace, my legs folding beneath the table as I adjusted my dress. The cool leather pressed against my back, a grounding contrast to the tension winding through me. This is it. Stay focused.

James settled back into his seat, his dark eyes studying me with genuine curiosity. "So," he began, voice as smooth as the ambiance around us, "tell me, what led you to the art gallery that day?"

I tilted my head slightly, the smile never wavering. "I've always had a passion for art," I said, allowing a touch of warmth to color my tone. "There's something captivating about how different artists express their perspectives, and that gallery, in particular, has a stunning collection."

He seemed pleased with my response, nodding thoughtfully. "I'm glad to hear that. It's not often I meet someone who truly appreciates the arts." Then, with a quick chuckle, he added, "And seriously, call me James. Mr. Donovan makes me sound like my father."

I let out a soft laugh, the sound light but deliberate. "James," I echoed, his name slipping from my lips smoothly. "I must admit, it does suit you better."

His grin widened as he leaned back, his eyes locking onto mine, something darker, more intense simmering beneath the surface. "Right? It feels... more personal."

Before the conversation could deepen, the waiter returned, poised with his notepad. "Are you ready to order?"

James glanced at me, his smile still firmly in place. "Ladies first."