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The Assassin discarded his empty glass on the bartop before marching into the crowd of partygoers. The Spy followed quickly behind him as he descended the wooden staircase tucked against the dark, ornate walls.

“Where are we going?” Sabine growled as she stumbled after him, the alcohol weighing her legs down.

“Home,” Dorian stated plainly as he held the main door open for the Spy. She furrowed her eyebrows at him before cautiously walking through it, temporarily disarmed by his chivalry.

Once outside, the Assassin nursed a cigarette in one hand while reaching for her hand with the other.

“Take it,” he commanded, “or you’ll get yourself killed.”

It wasn’t until Sabine found herself stumbling off the curb and into traffic that she realized what he’d meant. Dorian grabbed her hand just in time to pull her back onto the sidewalk and shift them so that he was between her and the road.

“Thank you,” Sabine begrudgingly offered from where she now walked, wedged between the hedges and the Assassin. “Where are we going?”

For the first time that night, Sabine was truly concerned. She looked back toward the restaurant, now fifty yards in the distance. This night was not going according to plan, and her brain was growing foggier with every rapid heartbeat.

“Did your parents ever tell you not to talk to strangers?” The Assassin snorted, a light gesture that directly combated his naturally dark tone. “You’re following me to my car.”

Sabine stopped in her tracks, pulling her hand from his. “I’m not leaving with you.”

“As much as I’d love to argue,” Dorian huffed, looking at his watch before placing his hands in his pockets before turning towards her, “you need to save it for the drive.”

“Exc-” Sabine began to say as her limbs grew heavier. She tried to turn around, but her feet didn’t follow her body. The Assassin caught her from behind.

“Me or Jones,” Dorian asked as he picked her up.

“What do you mean?” Sabine’s tongue tripped over itself as she fought against the simple sentence.

“Do you feel more comfortable with me,” Dorian repeated, grinding his teeth, “or Jones?”

She’d known Jones for the better half of a year. She’d known the Assassin for the lesser half of a night.

“You.”

The roar of thunder mingled with Sabine’s dreams, gently pulling her back to consciousness. She desperately collected her memories of the evening’s events before opening her eyes.

Her floor-length gown was tangled around her legs from where she lay tucked beneath a rich cream duvet. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the high-rise apartment was the bright city skyline. The Assassin’s home, she realized with a start.

Standing on shaky legs, Sabine turned towards the clock on the nightstand. It was just after midnight. She’d been out for four hours.

Pulling out the small dagger that was still tucked behind her neck, she exited the room. The Spy wasn’t surprised to see Dorian standing in his kitchen. She was surprised to see him making a grilled cheese. Shirtless. He didn’t turn towards her.

“If you throw that little butter knife at me while my back is turned,” Dorian warned from where he still stood facing away from her, focused on the stovetop, “I will not be happy.”

“Am I not a threat?” Sabine fumed, slowly treading closer to him. She must have looked like a wild animal with her knotted hair, bare feet, and the dagger cinched in a white-knuckled grip.

“A threat? Yes.” Dorian’s wolfish smile took over his face as he turned towards her. “A threat to me? Absolutely not.”

The Spy plated the sandwich onto china too fine for a drunken snack as Sabine took a seat on a bar stool. “What happened tonight?”

“You were drugged,” Dorian explained, turning around to set the sandwich down in front of her with a glass of water. “Drink.”

Sabine wanted to argue, but her throat was dry, and her stomach was empty. She propped herself onto the leather barstool and took a single bite of the sandwich before inquiring further. “Did you drug me?”

The Assassin took a second to shoot her a truly offended stare before leaning his elbows on the countertop before her.

“That’s not my style,” Dorian growled, annoyance rolling across his words.

Sabine took a deep breath. He had no reason to lie, but the truth was hard to swallow. She’d let her guard down, and — to her frustration — he’d saved her. She didn’t have time for the pity party, however.

“Where is the opal?”

“Safely hidden, I assure you.” Dorian’s tone slipped back into that of mischief as he yawned, running a hand across his toned core.

“What’s your price?”

The Spy was no longer trying to appeal to him. Everyone had a price, and it’d save them all time if he just told her what his was. There wasn’t anything that was out of the realm of possibility for her clients.

“Truth or dare.”

Sabine lowered her chin to stare him down through her lashes. “Fine. Whe-”

“No,” Dorian said, his low tone threatening as he rested his elbows on the countertop between them. “I already answered your question.”

“No, you didn’t,” Sabine debated, leaning in as if getting closer to him would force him to listen to her.

“I told you that the opal was hidden somewhere safe. Truth or dare?”

Sabine placed the sandwich back on the plate, readying herself to play.

“Truth.”

Dorian smiled.

“Who do you work for?”

“An organization.” The Spy could play dirty, too.

The Assassin ran a tongue under his lip, grinning ear to ear. “Touche.”

“For what it’s worth,” Sabine continued, offering more information than she needed to. “This job is freelance.”

Dorian seemed surprised by this, but didn’t remark on it. “I choose truth.”

“In what city is the opal located?” Sabine jumped straight into her next question.

“Now you’re getting it.” Dorian crooned, his smile exposing sharp canine teeth. “This one.”

The Spy stopped. This one? Does he mean to say that she could not only know the location of but also be at the location of the opal this very evening?

“How are you so close with Jones?” Dorian’s question broke through Sabine’s reverie before she could start the round. Her surprise at the question cracked through her cool demeanor, but only for a moment.

“A steady stream of bad decisions.” There was no need to sugarcoat it. Her quest for The Stygian Opal had brought them closer in more ways than one. Her delirious ambition had become a tool for him to play with. Each feeding into the other's game.

Silently pushing himself off the counter, Dorian turned his back on Sabine to open the refrigerator.

There was a beat of awkward silence between them before his light-hearted arrogance returned. “I wonder what he thought of you salivating over me all night.”

“I was not salivating,” Sabine argued, cheeks burning bright red at the accusation.

“If you say so,” Dorian said, cracking open the beer he’d pulled from the refrigerator. “I’ll give you two options. Take the info I gave you as enough and go back to the flimsy series of events you call a plan, or stay here.”

Sabine simply raised her eyebrows, waiting for the proverbial beat drop.

I’ll take you to the location of The Stygian Opal. Tonight.”

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The crime lord’s birthday celebration fell on the first warm, starry night after a series of fatal storms.

The perfect night served as further evidence that Jones could barter with the gods themselves, Sabine thought as she made herself comfortable at the rooftop bar where she had a perfect view of the city’s skyline and — most importantly — the Assassin.

Well-dressed men and women paraded about the black-tie event, their moods light as they mingled with old friends and enemies. It was all the same for those in organized crime.

But it was the tall man standing alone on the other side of the room who held her attention.

“You clean up nicely.” Jones, the man of the hour, placed a hand on Sabine’s hip as he snuck up from behind. She turned to face him. The sharp lines and dark features of his face were striking, but it was the ominous darkness underneath the facade that made the Spy’s skin crawl.

Jones had invited Sabine after she’d sought his assistance in finding the Stygian Opal. The muddled lore of the rare gem made separating fact from fiction impossible. However, whether the rumors were fact or fiction didn’t matter to her.

What did matter was that she was the one to deliver it to whichever of the world’s richest women and men made the highest bid.

The money that she’d make on the exchange would allow her to buy her way out of the lousy contract she’d made with her corrupt agency.

“Thank you for the invite.” Sabine pulled away to take sip from her highball glass. Just a diet soda with a lime, of course.

“Pleasure is mine,” Jones mumbled, his focus on flagging down a bartender walking through the party with glasses of champagne. Sabine politely protested as he grabbed two glasses from the tray and handed her one.

The way his eyes darted let her know that it was no longer a suggestion. “It’s just champagne.”

She accepted the cool glass flute with a smile. Angering Jones would only slow her down.

Jones took a sip of the sparkling wine. When The Spy didn’t mirror him, he placed his drink on the table. The grin fell from his face. “Drink.”

Sabine’s face fell for only a moment before she quickly worked to cover it with a smile of appeasement.

“That wasn’t so hard,” Jones’ tone was as condescending as the light pat he placed on her cheek before picking his glass back up and waving to a man from across the room. “I’ll see you later.”

A chill rolled down the sheer chiffon that draped down her back like a waterfall. The dress was long-sleeved, but not modest; most of her skin was on full display underneath the gauzy, bespeckled navy blue fabric. Her only accessory was a compact knife on the nape of her neck, hidden behind her thick curls. She didn’t let herself think about needing to use it.

Sabine’s first attempt at locating the Stygian Opal had failed when the source she’d chased through the city had gone up in (literal) flames over the River Thames. She learned of three identical incidents impacting low-level men in high-level crime families across the country. Whoever owned the ornament seemed to have decided to eliminate anyone they deemed a liability.

With her low-level contacts out of commission, Sabine had to get creative to locate the last link in the chain. According to her sources, the Assassin had no name, address, or family. He showed up when and where he wanted and could only be identified by the bright white scar that ran across his left eye.

The Spy turned her attention back to the Assassin. Or at least the spot where the Assassin had been. She scanned the room only to find that she’d lost sight of her target.

“Shit,” Sabine hissed under her breath, sighing as she swallowed the rest of her champagne in one gulp.

“Are you watching me?”

The Spy jumped, spinning to find the Assassin looming over her. She hoped her deer-in-the-headlights look came across more like a woman flustered over an attractive man speaking to her and less like a woman caught in the act.

“I’m sorry,” The Spy pretended to stutter, “I’m just waiting for a friend.”

“You’re a bad liar for what…” The Assassin probed, squinting his eyes at her as if her history was inscribed into the creases of her skin, “a consigliare?”

“Impressive,” The Spy lied, her voice intentionally higher-pitched than normal. A technique that she’d found took men’s guards down. “My name’s Mary.”

She reached out to shake his hand, but the Assassin only stared back at her with... Was he laughing at her?

“You can stop with the facade,” the Assassin gibed, taking a sip of his drink. “Jones told me you’re looking for me.”

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else,” Sabine assured him, leaning into her act even as it unravelled beneath her. “It was nice to meet you…”

“Dorian.” The Assassin’s grin widened. The sharp angles of his canines peaking through soft lips.

“It was nice to meet you, Dorian,” Sabine finished as she offered a nod before taking a step past him.

“It was nice to meet you, Sabine.”

The Spy whirled toward him.

“Now that I finally have your attention…” He laid two gentle fingers under her chin to close her mouth — agape with shock — before letting it rest on her bicep. A light squeeze let her know that running wasn’t an option. “I know you bargained with Jones for insights into the Stygian Opal. It’d be a waste if you left before getting what you’re looking for.”

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“Sweet dreams?” The Archaeologist jeered as he docked the plane, his hands flitting across the control panel. He twisted towards The Professor, a smug grin on his face.

“Yes.” Margret stretched as much as possible in the tiny compartment as they taxied to a docking station. “I dreamed I was far away from you.”

”Oh, don’t lie.” Henry’s grin widened. “You talk in your sleep.”

The plane stopped, and Henry circled to Margaret’s door, opening it wide. The London chill rushed in, wiping the blush from her cheeks.

Before she could refuse his gesture, Henry grabbed the luggage at Margaret’s feet, picked her up by the waist, and set her down on the tarmac. The Archaeologist had begun walking away, her bag still in tow, before she could even decipher East from West.

”I’ll grab a taxi from here.” The Professor insisted as she trotted to catch up to Henry, who was already opening the gate between the runway and the car park.

“Ah, look at that,” Henry was saying as he tossed the bags into the back of a forest green Cadillac before dropping into the driver’s seat. “Taxi’s here.”

The Archaeologist’s flat smelled of wet grass and burnt firewood as if the nature he was most comfortable has infused itself into the urban apartment. Margaret was admiring the view of the park beyond the living room’s cracked window when Henry’s voice broke her meditative state.

“The shower’s down the hall,” Henry offered as he walked out of his bedroom, holding a single white button-down shirt. He handed the top to The Professor, before picking her bag up from where he’d dropped it in the entryway. “You wash yourself, and I’ll wash what’s in here. Deal?”

The Professor didn’t argue as she took the button down from his hands on her way to the bathroom.

When she emerged from it an hour later, the scent of garlic was wafting from the kitchen.

“What can I get you to drink?” Henry asked from where he was leaning against the hearth with a glass of wine in one hand and lighting the fireplace logs with the other.

“I’ll have the same,” Margaret gestured toward his cabernet before taking a seat on the soft leather of the second-hand couch.

Henry retreated to the kitchen, returning a few seconds later to hand over a freshly poured glass before sitting beside her. He went to rest his hand on the book, sitting unassuming on the coffee table, before pulling it back. “I was hoping we could get some light reading in before dozing off for a few hours.”

The Professor took a long sip of the drink before lightly placing her fingertips onto the leather cover. She half expected the book to react; fearful it might retract any permissions it’d previously granted. To her relief, the book stayed cool beneath her fingertips.

”They say it has the power to control,” Henry mused as he watched Margaret flip through the hundred or so pages. “Each page is rumored to be a unique siren song.”

The Professor nodded absently, unsure of how to handle the weight of the potential before her. Or what it could do in the wrong hands.

Henry placed a hand on The Professor’s knee, still avoiding picking it up himself. “We should memorize one.”

”Or we could hand it over to the historical society immediately before anyone else lets such a stupid idea take root.”

”While I’d typically love to agree with you,” Henry’s tone dripped with sarcasm, “if Ferguson’s team gets their hands on it, we need to have a backup plan.”

”You don’t actually believe that.” Margaret asked, unsure whether or not she believed it.

Henry ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “I want to say no, but don’t make me do it in front of the book.”

She started to offer a snide retort, but was stopped short by Henry’s grip over her mouth. It wasn’t until she heard the footsteps in the hallway that she knew why.

The Archaeologist moved the hand at her mouth to his own lips in a universal gesture to stay silent before pointing to a closet in the corner of the room. He followed just behind as she scurried toward it. Once tucked between two coats, she turned towards him.

“They know that I’m home, but won’t think to look for you.” Something shifted behind Henry’s eyes before he backed away, blocking the door. “Or the book.”

Margaret’s brows furrowed, but all she could offer in response was a slight shake of her head as if she could think of a better plan in the mere seconds they had until the Curator barged into the apartment.

Before an idea broke the surface of her thoughts, the door shut in her face. Seconds later, she heard the door unlock before.

“Hey, boys,” Henry started, his jovial greeting almost believable, “glad to see you got home safe.”

The only response seemed to be more footsteps, this time towards where she now stood frozen in the corner closet.

”Do you have it?” Ferguson’s own playful tone seemed etched in something much more sinister than Henry’s. “Or does she?”

“You’re mad.” There was an audible snag in Henry’s natural confidence. “After seeing what it did to this ol’ brute, we stayed far away.”

It felt like a lifetime passed between the sound of the punch and Henry’s gasp as he caught his breath.

“Let’s have this conversation at the office.”

The Professor had lived in the city long enough to find her way from Henry’s apartment to the museum without a map. The harder part was maneuvering his car around the cobblestone streets, crowded with people returning home from their evening activities, but she knew they’d need a reliable escape car.

She parked on the other side of the street, crossing the courtyard in front of the museum before strolling up the stairs, past the regal columns, and to the doors which — to her surprise and dread — were unlocked.

Her being there was undoubtedly their plan, yet there seemed to be no way around it as she took a few hesitant steps inside. Comitting, she removed her heeled boots — the only item of clothing that was hers — to tiptoe inside the main hall. She was grateful she’d had the thought to steal one of The Archaeologist’s leather jackets to throw over the button-down for both modesty and how the dark brown camouflaged into the shadows.

Moving up the stairs, Margaret strode through the exhibits until she found the hall of offices tucked within them.

Last year, she’d had a meeting there to barter for a relic on behalf of a colleague. They’d lost. At the time, Margaret recalls the effort being a waste of time. She’d had no way of knowing how valuable knowing the office’s location would become.

Standing just outside the door with Ferguson’s name and title etched into a plaque beside it, Margaret could hear a flurry of hushed conversation that stopped in a heartbeat. She barely had time to register the shift before the door she was leaning on swung open, spilling her into the room’s carpet.

“Welcome.” The Curator offered her a hand, but she didn’t take it as she rose onto her feet. Her gaze fell to Henry in one of the wing-backed office chairs, a fresh bruise blooming on his cheek.

The slow, cordial greeting from earlier dissipated as the man who had been burnt by the book placed two meaty hands on Margaret’s shoulders, pushing her into the chair beside Henry’s.

“You have perfect timing,” Ferguson continued with genuine pep. “We trust you’ll be more accommodating in telling us the book’s location than he has.”

“Of course,” Margaret answered honestly, pulling herself up in her seat as if she were in a meeting rather than a hostage situation. “I have it with me.”

Ferguson’s smile grew too large for his face. Henry looked towards her, shock and confusion breaking through his pained exterior.

“But you don’t need it,” Margaret said, staring straight at the Curator before turning to the two men still standing behind the wooden desk. “And neither do either of you.”

The Curator stood up, realization crossing his striking features. He obviously wanted to lunge toward her bag, but couldn’t seem to manage it. In a heartbeat, he shifted his efforts towards the Professor.

Margaret went to shout at him — to command him — to stop, but he’d placed a meaty hand over her mouth before she could.

The way Margaret’s eyes widened confirmed Ferguson’s suspicion. He turned toward Henry. “Pick it up.”

Margaret cringed at how weak Henry was as the chair was pulled out from underneath him, and he crashed to the floor. She barely noticed the knife now at her own throat.

Henry walked toward where Ferguson was still holding tight to Margaret, gesturing toward the satchel at her waist. The Archaeologist took a few slow, appraising steps until he could smell the musty scent of cigarettes on the Curator’s breath.

“What are you waiting for?” Ferguson chided. The knife creating angry red marks on Margaret’s neck as she shook her head. “Get the book.”

It all happened too fast for Margaret to truly make sense of it. One minute, she watched Henry steel himself with a deep, slow breath. The next minute, the Curator was writhing on the ground in pain, grasping at where the book had been thrown at him.

Piecing it together, Margaret looked at Henry, who was examining his own hands. They both seemed surprised that they were entirely free of damage. Catching each other’s eyes, Henry nodded as if reminding Margaret that she could speak again, just as the Curator’s men tried to escape out the door.

“Stop moving.”

Six Months Later

Henry picked Margaret up at exactly a quarter ‘til noon. He’d been to her place many times since their trip. Dedicated sessions to study the book turned into dinners, which turned into long nights at each other’s homes. Today was the first time they were sharing it with anyone outside of themselves.

It wasn’t until the last month that the Professor and the Archaeologist were even able to hunt down a scholar they trusted to ensure its safety. An advisor who, now retired, spent most of her free time building a collection of ancient texts. Returning them when she could find a single place to call home, and donating proceeds to impacted societies when she could not.

They knew the Curator and his men had kept it a secret, as well. Not out of their own personal interest for its safety, but one of the several commands that Margaret had left them with in the officeongside doing them.

Henry drove. Margaret guided them through the winding streets of London until they were at their destination. Just as they’d done for months, hunting down artifacts to preserve, and just as they planned to do for a long time.

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Margaret followed the museum vehicles’ tracks back to Cairo, navigating the fine, unknown line of catching up to them and losing the signs of their journey to the windswept sands.

As she approached the city’s skyline, stocky and hazy from heat, Margaret began to tackle the anxieties she’d tucked underneath each other.

She didn’t know how she’d find Henry, nor did she know if the best-case scenario was that he was with the Curator or had fled somewhere far away.

Her scattered thoughts were pushed back down when the barely visible tire marks veered onto a main road where the last remnants of their trail — a light path of sand on stone — dissipated.

The Professor parked in the back of the hotel. She hid the book within the Archaeologist’s leather tote, littered with loose paper notes and sand. She scanned the lobby from underneath her wide-brimmed hat, no sign of the Curator among the bustling room.

She’d grown pessimistic that Henry had somehow outrun the Curator’s team for the entire hours long trek. She frowned as she readjusted the next steps in her head from those she’d need to return to London and how to rescue the Archaeologist. Margaret frowned as she placed the heavy bronze key into her hotel room lock.

“Why so blue?” Despite a bruise blooming on his eye, Henry seemed in oddly good spirits.

Margaret who was more surprised as she pulled him in for a hug, only stopping at the sound of a soft grunt of pain.

“Sorry.” The word felt foreign, but sincere, coming from Henry. As if he truly didn’t want to interrupt the moment. “My ankle’s seen better days.”

Margaret pulled back, holding onto his biceps as she scanned the length of his body as if she had x-ray vision and could diagnose each wound by visual alone. “You look like hell.”

“Ah, there you are.” Henry’s laugh was followed by a wince. “You should see the other guy.”

“Did you…” The Professor didn’t know how to ask, so she just ran finger across her throat.

To his credit, Henry looked surprised at the ask. “Kill them?!”

“I don’t know what you’re capable of!” Margaret threw her hands up before turning back around to begin packing. “Are we safe?”

“Not really.” Henry’s tone was still light, more interested in continuing to tease Margaret. “Unless you want to take care of it.”

“Let it go.” The Professor whirled on him, tossing the Archaeologist his leather tote as she threw her own bag over her shoulder. “We’re leaving now.”

The glossy mahogany of the counter warmed under Margaret’s palms as if her rage was generating fire. The man on the other side of it simply stared back at her as she fumed.

“There has to be something going out.”

“No, ma’am.” The man’s eyes diverted from her to the papers he arranged in a false display of being too busy for their conversation. “Tomorrow at dawn is the best we can do.”

The Professor peeled her hands from where they had begun melting into the desk’s surface. As Margaret opened her mouth to ask where she could find a flight to London that day, a deep voice at her back interrupted.

“No need to give this nice gentleman a hard time.”

The Professor turned to glare up at Henry as he leaned down beside her. Shifting her body towards him, she lowered her voice. “You sure are patient for a man who is, himself, in need of a one-way ticket.”

“Less in need.” Henry gently tugged Margaret’s hands from the counter to hold them in his. Whether to comfort her or keep her from leaping across it to attack the much-too-blase airport employee, she wasn’t sure. “You’re the wanted woman trying to smuggle a mysterious artifact out of the country, not me.”

The Professor whipped her head around to see if anyone was paying attention. To her horror, the entire room was listening to their conversation with mixed reactions.

Henry placed Margaret’s hands at her side before, brimming with the joy of having an unplayed card. “I’m flying private.”

“Of course you are.” The Professor turned back towards the desk agent, to avoid the flush of betrayal that she knew was visible. “Well, fly safe. Or don’t. I don’t care.”

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Henry placed a hand on her shoulder, pulling her to face him. “The book is coming with me. It’s too dangerous to stay here.”

Margaret’s cheeks flared a angry shade of rouge.

“The deal was that I take it back to the university,” the Professor reiterated the conversation they had on the ride there, “as long as I gave you my contact information.”

“That was before I realized you didn’t have reliable transportation.” Henry’s nose wrinkled as if he were annoyed with the predicament, but the slight upward tilt of his lip gave his true feelings away. “I guess you’ll just have to go with us.”

“I don’t need or want your help.” Margaret walked toward the front doors of the small building, readjusting the bag over her shoulder. Without hesitation, Henry took it from her arm and strolled off in the opposite direction.

“I don’t need or want you wasting my time,” Henry tossed over his shoulder without stopping.

Margaret rushed to follow him out of the small building and onto where he was striding across the hot tarmac. “You can’t just walk across an active runway.”

“You heard the man. No flights out today.” Henry argued while keeping a pace that forced Margaret to jog to keep up to. “The flights in, well… we won’t worry about that.”

“You don’t seem to worry about much,” Margaret huffed, finally close enough to pull her bag from Henry’s shoulders. She was surprised when he handed it over. The action catching her off guard just long enough for him to wrap an arm around her waist and spin her around to create enough momentum to hoist her over his shoulder.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” The Professor screeched, placing one of her hands on his back to stabilize herself.

“Is your plan to really stay here and let our rich, morally bankrupt friends find you.” The Archaeologist responded with a light slap to her where he held onto her hips. “What do you think they will do then? Invite you to a quiet dinner and let you ride back to London with them?”

Margaret only responded with silence.

“Buckle up.” It was the only warning he gave before dropping the Archaeologist onto the passenger seat of the plane. The Professor caught her breath as she looked up at him, hair wild and face flushed.

“For safety.” Henry grinned down at Margaret as he ran the belt across the seat, tightening it across her body. “It’s going to be a bumpy flight.”

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From the broken leather of the reconnaissance vehicle’s passenger seat, Margaret desperately tried to protect the map from the sandy gusts as they sped through the desert.

Henry told as if his voice were fueling the car itself as they drove toward the spot on the map Margaret had discreetly marked with a smudge of lipstick.

It was an educated guess, of course. While the exact location of The Lost Library — emphasis on lost — was unknown, it was described as being among the phantom ships.

To her knowledge, the description had only been written down on a single text sitting in a locked box of her private office. It had been passed down to her from her mentor just as it’d been passed down to her. 500 words of Arabic from a time centuries prior, when Egypt was conquered and, with the new regime, historians sought to preserve knowledge. While libraries were burned to the ground, one remained, but its existence became a ghost of lore passed through academics to ensure it stayed such.

Margaret was thinking of how to ask Henry more about his note, leading them to their current adventure, when the car lurched to a full stop. Pulling herself upright, Margaret jumped from the car to follow the Archeologist up a dune.

She was so focused on the climb that she hadn’t even looked up until physically running into Henry. She followed his gaze and gasped at the sight of the Red Sea sprawled out before them. Between them and the water sat a series of rocks that once served to keep visiting ships in place during their travels.

“That’s it,” Henry said, serious now as he pointed toward a dune.

Not a dune, Margaret realized with a start. A cave.

The Professor pulled an electric torch before stepping into an entryway that seemed to defy physics. Each wall dripped in waterfalls of sand, as if the desert around her were alive, like any ocean. A few dozen footfalls of their bare feet and the narrow hallway opened up to reveal an ornate cavern.

The walls continued to drip around them, but their attention shifted to the center, where, underneath a large crystallized structure that was more chandelier than ceiling, sat a single wooden chest. Around it sat a miniature moat only about a stride’s length from one side to the other. The Professor kneeled to examine it.

“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”

Margaret whirled toward where Henry stood just steps behind her. Both hands raised in false surrender.

“The text very specifically states to use words, not actions.” The Archaeologist’s eyes roamed across the cavern in awe.

“That’s not true,” Margaret argued, rolling her eyes as she turned back to the enclosure, her stubbornness ignoring how her intuition yelled at her to listen to him. “How would you know anyway?”

She went to step across the moat but was stopped by a hand around her bicep. Whipping her head towards him, the Professor was surprised to see that Henry’s eyes were wide with fear.

“Yours might have left that tiny detail out,” Henry said, not letting go of her arm. “But mine didn’t.”

“Yours?” The Professor whirled toward him, eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

“There are three texts,” The Archaeologist stated, the humorous lilt to his voice replaced with something more thoughtful. “One before you. One in your office. And one in mine.”

Before Margaret could respond, the sound of a car rattled from just outside the cave.

Henry pulled her against an alcove etched into the far wall, partially hidden by the cascade of sand as three men entered the cave. All were tall and broad-shouldered except for one — a lean and well-dressed man who commanded the room despite his smaller stature. Ferguson, the Curator of the museum.

The largest of the men approached the chest first, easily stepping over the barrier to place a meaty palm on its surface. He began to feel around as if looking for a trigger or weak point before jumping back.

Despite looking as if he were composed of pure steel rather than human flesh, the man cried out as if he’d been bitten. No, not bitten. Burnt.

“I told you.” Henry gently nudged Margaret from where they sat crouched beside each other.

Her groan was louder than she’d anticipated. In a flash, Henry’s hand was wrapped around her mouth.

“Is someone there?” The Curator had his hands up as if to silence the two men still standing at his side. Margaret and Henry didn’t breathe as the men’s eyes glazed past their hiding spot, only relaxing when Ferguson’s attention turned to his fallen comrade.

“You’ll need to get its permission,” Henry explained to Margaret while the men had their backs turned away from them, now walking around the perimeter as if looking for a key or other method to open the chest. It was only a matter of time before the Professor and the Archaeologist were found. “I’m going to distract them.”

Before Margaret could argue how idiotic the plan was, Henry had already run out of their hiding spot. She watched as he made it to the center of the room without being spotted. The Archaeologist would probably have made it to the mouth of the cave if it weren’t for the man lying on the ground.

“Ferguson!” As if to get back into The Curator’s good graces, his shouts of pain turned into those of alarm. “He’s here!”

Henry took off, somehow faster than before, towards the men’s car. Margaret stifled a laugh as she heard their car engine come to life.

Visibly angry, the men took the bait.

When the sounds of their shouts had turned to distant echoes, Margaret cautiously approached the wooden chest once more with a newfound respect — and fear — for the object after what it’d done to the man twice her size.

“Hello,” Margaret started in the sake of humoring the Archeologist’s hypothesis while scanning the perimeter of the trove’s island for a more logical solution, “I understand you require sweet-talking. Which, frankly, I’ve never been very good at.”

Something about saying that sentence out loud made her realize this task may require a subsequent appointment with a psychoanalyst.

“Listen,” she continued, choosing to stick to what she knew, “I’m here so that they don’t lock you up somewhere for overstimulated tourists to walk past when the dinosaur bones become boring.”

She was on her knees digging, eyeing every grain of sand the box rested on, when she heard a single click. To her surprise, the lid sprang open. Within it, a single key.

“Thank you,” The Professor breathed, gratitude dripping from her fingertips as she took the tiny golden token in her hand and ran out of the cave.

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The Professor’s eyes didn’t stray from her map as the Archaeologist hovered over her.

She had seen him approach, one hand tucked into his linen suit while the other held a rocks glass filled to the brim with brown liquor, but her own drink — a strong coffee — hadn’t been able to fight the travel day exhaustion let alone a conversation with him.

Despite the many available seats in the hotel’s lounge, the Archaeologist lingered for an uncomfortable few seconds. The Professor looked up to meet his gaze with a heavy sigh.

She wasn’t always this rude, but the overnight flight had been rough and she’d need to make the most of every second if she were to acquire what she came for in the mere forty-eight hours she was allowed. This particular hour was devoted to caffeinating and finding a driver willing to take her to the middle of the desert. There simply weren’t enough seconds in the day to make small talk with her professional rival.

The Archaeologist, however, seemed in no such rush as he sat down on the rust colored velvet sofa beside the Professor, despite the easy translation of her body language telling him to do anything but.

“Henry,” he offered. His grin was still visible through the rim of his glass as he took a sip.

There was an uncomfortable pause before the Professor offered a sharp nod before returning to her map, hoping her eye movements were discreet enough to avoid him from knowing where she was going.

“This is where you respond, ‘I’m Margaret’.”

The Professor — Margaret — ground her teeth. They both knew that the other needed no introduction. They’d run in the same academic circles for years. Chasing the same artifacts. Fighting over the same lecture positions. They could send men 5,000 miles into the sky, but somehow having a woman lead a talk at a scientific conference was too progressive, so he’d almost always won them over her.

Logic quickly replaced the sharp twinge of surprise that rang through her. It wasn’t surprising to see him there. Egypt held a great deal of information for someone in his field. The chance of him being there for the same thing Margaret next to zero. While expeditions like these typically started in large libraries and classrooms, this one was initiated by a note tucked underneath her office door a week ago that she’d only trusted out of desperation to find the one object she knew it was referencing.

The Lost Library. Cairo. June 12.

“You’re quite the proponent for repatriation.”

Henry filled the silence as if hot air were a limited resource. Margaret tilted her refined, light frustration into something more confrontational. Despite his words being laced with liquor, she knew that the Archaeologist was more in control than he let on.

“And I’m good at it.” Margaret intentionally sharpened her gaze on Henry’s gold-rimmed glasses. “Which I’m sure you already know since I’ve argued — and won — many cases against your work directly.”

“Smart and spirited,” Henry laughed, crossing a leg over his knee. Making himself comfortable, Margaret realized to her chagrin. “Museums aren’t all bad, you know.”

“I know,” she agreed, returning her attention to the map. Letting her finger tips dance across the page as if to really sell how limited on time she was. “Yet you always seem to choose the most unethical ones to work with.”

“I’m here researching my next book, actually.” Just when she’d returned her attention to where it needed to be, Henry broke through it. “Mysterious Texts of Ancient Egypt.”

The Professor’s head spun. Both figuratively and literally, Margaret realized as they locked eyes again.

She simply nodded before scanning the room, her allotted time to find a driver almost up. They typically loitered just outside the open-air lobby for tourists in desperate need to get to their next location. She simply needed to find the one most likely to take her five hours into the desert without asking too many questions.

Collecting herself, Margaret folded the map, drained the coffee, and stood up. Henry sat back to meet her glare from where she now looked down on him. “It was nice to meet you, but I have a lot of wor—.”

“I’m going to The Lost Library,” he interrupted, grabbing his glass and draining his whiskey. “And, based on your expertise, the spot on the map you keep subconsciously tapping, and your hostile nature that I wouldn’t dare to assume is your natural state… I’d say you are, too.”

The blood in Margaret’s veins froze as Henry pulled a folded slice of paper from his pocket. The parchment was cut from the same unique rose-colored cloth as the one in her bag upstairs. The Professor could assume that the instructions on it were the same, as well.

“It’s a myth,” Margaret said more to herself than to the Archaeologist. “I’m only here to dispel it.”

“Well, I’m here to prove it,” Henry countered, crossing his arms but raising the folded message in between two fingers.

Margaret desperately needed to be alone to sort through her thoughts before she lashed out from pure overstimulation. “If I had known someone else was tasked with doing the dirty work, I would’ve gladly stayed at home.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.” Henry licked his lips, dry from the desert wind. “Besides, knowing that you’d be here is the whole reason I came in the first place. I’d like to partner with you on this.”

“I think the heat’s made you delusional.” Margaret couldn’t contain the harsh laugh that escaped her. It seemed to take Henry aback by the way his eyebrows raised. Not in alarm so much as amusement. “I won’t help you find kindling for their fires.”

They both knew that she was referring to the museums. They were always the first to scrounge up any remnants of an artifact, whether it was theirs to take or not. Digging up culture simply to put it on some display they could profit from.

“As much as I’d like to blame the heat, I’ve been waiting for you all morning.” Henry stood up, close enough now for Margaret to need to tilt her chin up to face him. “I’m here to ensure that the guys chasing it for the museum never find this particular item, and know you’re the best at doing just that.”

A chill ran down Margaret’s spine, unsure why he’d be working against the museum. What could make this item so special that he’d forgo his allegiance. Before she could respond, the Archaeologist’s gaze shifted behind her shoulder.

“Ah, there they are now.”

She turned slowly to find three men in sharp linen suits making their way through the lobby. Seemingly hunting down the most willing driver, just as she had only a few minutes earlier.

“We could go on and on about how you think I’m a cad who can’t be trusted,” the Archaeologist had shifted away from the men, shadowing her as if to hide them both, “but I’m the cad with a car, and we need to leave now.”

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The Critic watched over the Chef’s shoulder as he reached behind him to push the elevator button to the fortieth floor. Oliver’s other hand rested on the space between Amelia’s collarbones, gently pushing her back into the mirrored wall of the elevator.

“Will you show up to your reservation, now that I’m an award-winning chef?” Oliver grinned against Amelia’s lips. She matched the curve of his smile with her own before pushing him away as the door opened.

They parted just long enough to stumble from the elevator to the apartment door ten steps down the hall. Drunk on tangible and intangible substances, Oliver unlocked his apartment before taking Amelia’s hand and pulling her across the threshold.

“So this is where the magic happens,” Amelia teased as Oliver led them deeper into the space. The entryway was decorated with pictures of professional cooks with both their signature dish and literal signature sitting in the frame together. Some she recognized, some she didn’t. A play on the tradition of decades-old restaurants in big cities plastering celebrity faces on their walls.

“I’m developing a new recipe,” Oliver’s eyes flashed as he brought Amelia in closer to him, wrapping her flush against his chest as he turned to walk her backwards into the kitchen. “A dessert.”

“Oh, is that why I’m here?” It was meant as a joke, but grew uncertain when Oliver turned on the oven. Amelia didn’t typically like surprises, but trusted she’d be fed one way or another.

“Of course,” Oliver responded simply, lifting Amelia to sit on the counter before turning away from her. The cityscape beyond the floor to cieling windows was bright in comparison to the dimly lit kitchen. It was just bright enough for her to make out a few words on the post-it notes haphazardly pinned to the fridge with simple, black magnets. Combinations of spices and cooking temperatures next to cuts of meat. Strung together in some makeshift storyboard.

Amelia thought of the days Oliver must have sat in the kitchen alone, playing with flavor profiles until he found one worth adding to the fridge. Molding recipes in hopes that the right dish matched with the right taste buds.

That’s why Amelia loved being a food journalist. She loved getting to witness the result and tell its story in a way that brought the right people to the table.

When Oliver turned around from where he’d been perusing various drawers and cabinets, she was surprised to see that he only held a pen. He leaned back into her, the entire lower half of his face sneaking towards the left in a devious smirk.

“Kiss me.”

Desperate to curb a craving, the Critic rolled her eyes before leaning in to offer a teasing kiss. A slow graze that left tingles in its wake as if each nerve was clamoring for more time.

The Chef broke away, nodding as he clicked the pen and wrote a single word on his hands. Espresso.

“What are you doing?” Amelia took his hands, the laughter bubbling out of her like shaken champagne. Oliver’s face went serious, as if he were studying the way her laugh sounded before writing another word on his hand.

Grabbing his wrist, Amelia angled it to read what he’d written across his palm. Sugar.

Oliver tapped his pen against her chest before lightly dragging it across the fabric of her dress down her sternum to rest just below her belly button. He tapped it a few times before setting it onto the counter, freeing his hands to hold onto her hips as his lips met her neck.

Amelia let her head sink backwards as the Chef draped kisses across her collarbone. He stopped where skin met cloth, sighing as if he’d just realized it was there. Oliver rose to lock eyes with the Critic as he reached around her neck to untangle the elaborate bow, letting it cascade around her waist.

With her torso now entirely bare, Oliver dipped back towards her chest as if never interrupted. Amelia gripped his hair in her fingers while his dug deeper into the fabric around her hips, desperately clawing at it.

Oliver’s mouth trailed downwards, the skin beneath his lips becoming more sensitive before finally reaching the sharpest peaks of Amelia’s breast. He dragged his tongue across them, making her gasp.

He pulled back. Grabbing the pen again. Berries.

“Are you going to be doing that the whole time?” Amelia was still playing with his hair, running each tendril through her fingertips as she watched him study her.

He wrote down another word before tossing the pen into the sink. Amelia got a glance at the ink-stained hand just before it returned to her waist. Spice.

“Lay down,” Oliver’s voice was thick as he coaxed Amelia onto her back before working her dress down her thighs until it gathered onto the floor at his feet. Oliver took his time working his way back up her body, letting his fingertips play with the inside of her legs before pushing them apart.

With the clean snap of scissors on lace, she was completely naked. Her skin flushed against the cool marble of the kitchen island. Without hesitation, Oliver dipped toward her center. The light kisses from earlier finding a new, more sensitive destination.

Dizzy, Amelia clawed the counter as Oliver explored. Each moment torturously slow as if he was truly curating a flavor profile. She lifted her hips against him as he held her knees tight where they hinged against the counter. So sensitive now, she didn’t know if she wished for the sensation to simmer or flare.

The decision was made for her as Oliver covered his body with hers. One hand taking over the space where his mouth had been, while the other reached up to wrap around her throat. He sank his face into her hair.

Her game with Oliver had flipped on its head quicker than she was able to wrap her own around. An appetizer that had turned past, presents, and futures mingling into a full-course meal.

Her body shuddered as if to block out the racing thoughts and focus solely on how her body had begun to feel like a kettle whose steam was only beginning to escape. Oliver nipped at her ear as he relentlessly pressed down onto her nerves, offering reassuring shushes into her hair until she unwound.

Oliver pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead before helping her down from the counter, washing his hands, and turning towards the fridge to pull out the ingredients smudged against his palm.How he’d looked genuinely embarrassed as he used the napkin from her mouth to dab at the hot sauce on her chin. How he’d draped a coat over her shoulders while he called an Uber. How he pressed a note into her hand when he walked her to the door: Friday. 10:00 PM.

She never showed up.

The new ballroom of the old hotel felt more like the ninth circle of hell than a gala.

Keeping her head high and eyes low, the Critic quickly strode towards her table on the far wall, her red gown’s chiffon hem bouncing at her heels. She was ten steps from her destination when a hand rested on her upper arm.

Amelia spun towards it instinctively — hopefully, she realized — her head having not had enough time to tell her heart how to react. A rush of emotions that ultimately crashed into another. Disappointment.

She hadn’t thought George, the other arrogant chef who’d evaded her personal life in the last few months, would care enough to find her. Then again, she hadn’t thought much of him at all these days.

“Always in a rush.” He didn’t drop his hand from her bicep. Rather, he gave it a gentle squeeze. An otherwise reassuring gesture that felt claustrophobic under his gaze. “It means a lot that you’re here.”

George hadn’t changed. Like the slightly burnt pocket square that had seemingly come too close to a flame, there was always something grittier beneath.

“Of course.” Amelia worked to keep her face straight, surprised how he could still make her blood boil. “It’s all part of the gig, after all.”

“Right, but I know you hate these things.” George nodded as if she’d offered a false excuse. No longer engaging in conversation, but going through a mental checklist of items to control the narrative that best suits his ego. “I had other plans, but then the restaurant got nominated, and I figured I’d show up.”

Amelia took a deep breath before offering a sickly sweet grin in return. His restaurant was not only nominated but favored to win the highest honor this year. An award which, despite having only been promoted to head chef three months earlier, George was taking full credit for

“Right,” Amelia mirrored his casual disrespect, dipping to lows she wasn’t proud of. George had always tried to rile her up. Light jabs at her cooking attempts or tiny critiques of her articles. All of which resulted in some mild hate sex that allowed her to forgive the actual moment. “I heard it was a rough transition.”

“We had to clean house, but it’s been great ever since.” George placed the hand from her arm back into his pocket. A facade of boyish sheepishness. “Speaking of… I heard you’re speaking to — what’s his name — Oscar?”

“Oliver.” If Amelia’s heart kept dropping at the thought of him, she’d need a cardiac monitor.

“Of course!” George said without any real apology attached to it. “I hope that place he wound up at is going okay.”

“They’re nominated, so I’d say it is.” Amelia knew she was on the brink of embarrassing herself, defending a man she barely knew. A man whose relationship she’d neglected her every instinct to see again in an effort to preserve the very reputation she was putting at risk.

George’s only response was to take a sip of wine. A knowing smirk falling behind its rim. Amelia’s anxiety went to war with itself in the silence. She knew she should walk away, but couldn’t do so without knowing one thing. “How did you hear about that?”

“I’m surprised he remembered, considering he’d drunk enough rum to flambé a bathtub worth of foster.”

Amelia whipped around to see Oliver, effortlessly cool in a burgundy suit. Without a word, he wrapped an arm around Amelia’s waist. “He was ranting about the many women he’s hooked up with.”

George’s face flashed a mix of anger and embarrassment. Amelia thought he might lunge. Oliver looked more playful than ever.

“I hope you don’t mind that I told him I’d appreciate it if he kept your name out of his mouth,” Oliver finished, looking at Amelia now as gently tapped her hip. A silent sign to turn away. “Best of luck tonight, Greg.”

Oliver ran a thumb across the bare skin of her back as they walked toward the table, where Meredith was seated, wide-eyed and staring. She’d obviously watched the entire interaction.

“Thank you,” Amelia could barely hear herself, but knew that Oliver did by how he took her hand in his and squeezed. “I’ve humiliated myself in a unique variety of ways, so it’s probably best that I just try to pretend everything between our first introduction and now never happened.”

“We could do that,” Oliver smiled, clamping his teeth to his lower lip before turning towards her, passing a full glass of red wine into her hands. “Or we could stop thinking so much.”

Against her better judgment, Amelia smiled. Silently, she brought the glass to her lips. When she lowered it, he gave a slight nod of his head. She finished the glass. Oliver pulled out Amelia’s seat before taking the one right next to her.

“They don’t usually seat restaurants with the media.”

“No, of course not.” Oliver was unraveling the napkin to place in his lap. Amelia blushed, remembering her makeshift blindfold. “I put in a favor.”

The Critic was trying to wrap her head around what he’d said when Meredith leaned over her shoulder.

“Do you have a speech prepared?” Her blonde bob swept across the boat neckline of her butter-yellow dress.

“Absolutely,” the Chef answered honestly. “I’m going to win tonight.”

Meredith offered a kind smile before letting herself be distracted by their boss approaching the table, dragging several restaurant owners trying to get his attention behind him.

Amelia was surprised. It was uncommon for a restaurant as new as Oliver’s even to be nominated. A win like that was unheard of.

“Will you let me hear it?” Amelia asked in a way of showing interest and softening the truth’s blow. She wasn’t one to lie or dodge a question, but she had learned how to deliver it.

Oliver took the napkin from her plate before placing it on her lap. He let his hand linger on her thigh before taking a sip of his wine and turned to make small talk with the critic to his left. Not like a politician looking for a constituent’s vote, but that of a boyfriend meeting their partner’s colleagues.

“You will.”

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Amelia had tried everything to get the stain out of her blouse. No amount of water, vinegar, or hydrogen peroxide succeeded, so it remained a stubborn reminder of her night at the Chef’s restaurant. She stared at it for a moment before pushing it aside to pull down the dress she’d wear to that evening’s gala, wishing she could do the same to the memories that came with it.

How he’d looked genuinely embarrassed as he used the napkin from her mouth to dab at the hot sauce on her chin. How he’d draped a coat over her shoulders while he called an Uber. How he pressed a note into her hand when he walked her to the door: Friday. 10:00 PM.

She never showed up.

The new ballroom of the old hotel felt more like the ninth circle of hell than a gala.

Keeping her head high and eyes low, the Critic quickly strode towards her table on the far wall, her red gown’s chiffon hem bouncing at her heels. She was ten steps from her destination when a hand rested on her upper arm.

Amelia spun towards it instinctively — hopefully, she realized — her head having not had enough time to tell her heart how to react. A rush of emotions that ultimately crashed into another. Disappointment.

She hadn’t thought George, the other arrogant chef who’d evaded her personal life in the last few months, would care enough to find her. Then again, she hadn’t thought much of him at all these days.

“Always in a rush.” He didn’t drop his hand from her bicep. Rather, he gave it a gentle squeeze. An otherwise reassuring gesture that felt claustrophobic under his gaze. “It means a lot that you’re here.”

George hadn’t changed. Like the slightly burnt pocket square that had seemingly come too close to a flame, there was always something grittier beneath.

“Of course.” Amelia worked to keep her face straight, surprised how he could still make her blood boil. “It’s all part of the gig, after all.”

“Right, but I know you hate these things.” George nodded as if she’d offered a false excuse. No longer engaging in conversation, but going through a mental checklist of items to control the narrative that best suits his ego. “I had other plans, but then the restaurant got nominated, and I figured I’d show up.”

Amelia took a deep breath before offering a sickly sweet grin in return. His restaurant was not only nominated but favored to win the highest honor this year. An award which, despite having only been promoted to head chef three months earlier, George was taking full credit for

“Right,” Amelia mirrored his casual disrespect, dipping to lows she wasn’t proud of. George had always tried to rile her up. Light jabs at her cooking attempts or tiny critiques of her articles. All of which resulted in some mild hate sex that allowed her to forgive the actual moment. “I heard it was a rough transition.”

“We had to clean house, but it’s been great ever since.” George placed the hand from her arm back into his pocket. A facade of boyish sheepishness. “Speaking of… I heard you’re speaking to — what’s his name — Oscar?”

“Oliver.” If Amelia’s heart kept dropping at the thought of him, she’d need a cardiac monitor.

“Of course!” George said without any real apology attached to it. “I hope that place he wound up at is going okay.”

“They’re nominated, so I’d say it is.” Amelia knew she was on the brink of embarrassing herself, defending a man she barely knew. A man whose relationship she’d neglected her every instinct to see again in an effort to preserve the very reputation she was putting at risk.

George’s only response was to take a sip of wine. A knowing smirk falling behind its rim. Amelia’s anxiety went to war with itself in the silence. She knew she should walk away, but couldn’t do so without knowing one thing. “How did you hear about that?”

“I’m surprised he remembered, considering he’d drunk enough rum to flambé a bathtub worth of foster.”

Amelia whipped around to see Oliver, effortlessly cool in a burgundy suit. Without a word, he wrapped an arm around Amelia’s waist. “He was ranting about the many women he’s hooked up with.”

George’s face flashed a mix of anger and embarrassment. Amelia thought he might lunge. Oliver looked more playful than ever.

“I hope you don’t mind that I told him I’d appreciate it if he kept your name out of his mouth,” Oliver finished, looking at Amelia now as gently tapped her hip. A silent sign to turn away. “Best of luck tonight, Greg.”

Oliver ran a thumb across the bare skin of her back as they walked toward the table, where Meredith was seated, wide-eyed and staring. She’d obviously watched the entire interaction.

“Thank you,” Amelia could barely hear herself, but knew that Oliver did by how he took her hand in his and squeezed. “I’ve humiliated myself in a unique variety of ways, so it’s probably best that I just try to pretend everything between our first introduction and now never happened.”

“We could do that,” Oliver smiled, clamping his teeth to his lower lip before turning towards her, passing a full glass of red wine into her hands. “Or we could stop thinking so much.”

Against her better judgment, Amelia smiled. Silently, she brought the glass to her lips. When she lowered it, he gave a slight nod of his head. She finished the glass. Oliver pulled out Amelia’s seat before taking the one right next to her.

“They don’t usually seat restaurants with the media.”

“No, of course not.” Oliver was unraveling the napkin to place in his lap. Amelia blushed, remembering her makeshift blindfold. “I put in a favor.”

The Critic was trying to wrap her head around what he’d said when Meredith leaned over her shoulder.

“Do you have a speech prepared?” Her blonde bob swept across the boat neckline of her butter-yellow dress.

“Absolutely,” the Chef answered honestly. “I’m going to win tonight.”

Meredith offered a kind smile before letting herself be distracted by their boss approaching the table, dragging several restaurant owners trying to get his attention behind him.

Amelia was surprised. It was uncommon for a restaurant as new as Oliver’s even to be nominated. A win like that was unheard of.

“Will you let me hear it?” Amelia asked in a way of showing interest and softening the truth’s blow. She wasn’t one to lie or dodge a question, but she had learned how to deliver it.

Oliver took the napkin from her plate before placing it on her lap. He let his hand linger on her thigh before taking a sip of his wine and turned to make small talk with the critic to his left. Not like a politician looking for a constituent’s vote, but that of a boyfriend meeting their partner’s colleagues.

“You will.”

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The moment the Chef’s thumb landed on her tongue, the Critic craved more.

Oliver moved his hand to grip the back of her neck before leaning close enough for her to feel his voice. The wine seemed to have slicked away the cold facade, leaving something warm and playful in its place. Even the highlights in his dark, tousled hair seemed brighter from where they fell across his eyes.

“I’d say this a surprise, but that’d be a lie.”

Amelia narrowed her eyes in response, knowing it was directly counteracted by the uncontainable smirk. She didn’t attempt to string together words at risk of ruining their game as Oliver used the hold he still had at the base of Amelia’s skull to guide her toward the floor until her knees were pressed to the cold tile.

Amelia sat back on her heels, shoulders pressing against the emerald tiles lining the kitchen island. The Chef rose, immediately returning his attention to the stove, busying himself with the pots and pans as if she weren’t even there.

Humiliation pooled in her gut as she considered that this may all be a ruse. A punishment for how she’d made him feel earlier that evening. Frustrated, Amelia went to stand up just as Oliver kneeled beside her again, a timer in one hand and a knife in the other.

“I don’t appreciate distractions when I’m working,” Oliver stared straight at Amelia as he spoke, but she didn’t return the gaze. Rather, she kept an eye on the small paring knife that the Chef now tapped on her knee before inching it towards the chiffon hem of her skirt, playing with the soft skin of her inner thigh. “And everyone pulls their weight in my kitchen.”

As he spoke, the cold steel inched back down between her knees. He dug the tip into the soft flesh around one. Enough to make a point, but not break skin. “First, I want to make sure that you can take directions.”

Without needing to be told, Amelia spread her legs. The knife continued to follow her knees until they were an uncomfortable distance apart.

Satisfied, the Chef placed the knife back on the counter and wound the timer. He stood up to remove his apron, leaving him in only a white tee and black dress pants.

“Next, I want to make sure that you are the right fit for this job.”

Amelia rolled her eyes at Oliver as he kneeled. Instinctively, her knees inched closer to each other, but Oliver took one in each of his hands before pulling them apart again. He kept a firm hold on them as he leaned into her.

“Open your mouth,” Oliver commanded, one hand staying on her leg while the other crept into her hair. Amelia pursed her lips as she went to ask what he was doing, but the Chef interjected before she could. “I won’t ask again.”

A blush crossed Amelia’s cheeks. Whether it was for disobeying or how she considered obeying the instructions, she wasn’t sure. She licked her lips, contemplating the request, before letting her lower jaw drop open.

“That will do for now,” Oliver offered with a sigh before pulling a linen cloth napkin down from the countertop. “No peeking.”

Amelia barely had a second to think as the Chef pulled the material around her eyes, tying a knot at the base of her skull. For several seconds too many, she was left blindfolded. “Okay, this is a little dramatic.”

The familiar grip on her skull returned, inching her head upwards. She could just barely see the kitchen’s dim lights from beneath the makeshift blindfold.

“You lost a turn for not following instructions.”

“I didn’t realize we were pl—”

The Critic’s words were cut off as Oliver took her jaw the hands not latched onto her head. He squeezed just enough to prop her mouth back open, but not hard enough to bruise.

She heard a cork pop open before a drop of liquid landed on her tongue. The burn spread like wildfire. She reached for the napkin at her eyes, but was met with a light slap to the cheek.

“Play fair or not at all.” Oliver’s voice was too light to be a threat. Amelia realized he was laughing. Not at her, but with her. As if he was simply happy to find someone who knew how to play his favorite game. “If you remove the napkin without permission, this is over. Do you want that?”

Amelia swallowed down the hot sauce before licking her lips and hesitantly shaking her head. She didn’t want to stop.

Within seconds, heat erupted across her tongue as Oliver shook another drop into her mouth. The Critic winced, but managed to keep her mouth open despite the tears welling in her eyes. “Swallow.”

Amelia immediately closed her mouth, the short-lived relief quickly evaporating as the spices raced down her throat. Oliver leaned down to her level. “What pepper was that?”

“How am I supposed to know?!” Amelia gasped.

“You’re a critic,” Oliver goaded, “I thought you knew everything.”

“You’re a prick,” Amelia spat, hoping he knew she didn’t mean it. On the contrary, it felt that she was finally playing along.

“Such a sharp tongue,” Oscar taunted from where he dabbed a spot of hot sauce on his index finger before pushing it against her tongue. “This should help.”

Amelia’s eyes welled with the heat, but she showed no signs of giving up, even as Oscar pressed deeper into her throat.

“Would you like to guess?” Oscar removed his finger, “or do you prefer to forfeit another turn?”

“Ghost,” The Critic coughed out. Her entire body shuddered when she heard the bottle pop open again, a rush of cold juxtaposing the heat that had spread across her skin.

“Not quite.” Oscar exuded faux sympathy as he wiped at her lips with a calloused thumb before bringing the vial to his own lips, pouring it onto his own tongue. He swirled it around like an expensive wine before leaning down to Amelia, pulling her jaw open, and spitting into her mouth.

“Swallow.” He kept his hand on her chin as she followed instructions, but this time to hold her jaw closed. When she finally swallowed, he asked again. “What’s your guess?”

The Critic’s brain had become foggy. The overwhelming rush of endorphins from the spices, pain, and humiliation clouding her judgement and any rational thought left. She spat out the name of the first pepper she could think of. “Habanero.”

“Getting colder.” Oscar jeered as the timer went off. “Unfortunately, you’re out of time.”

Amelia shook her head as if it’d help clear her brain. “What does that mean?”

The Chef took his time kneeling to her level to twist the lid back onto the hot sauce and remove the napkin from her eyes before speaking.

“Let me walk you home.”

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The Critic ordered her steak medium. The Chef made it rare.

“You don’t know what you want until you’ve tried it,” Amelia mimicked, pulling her credit card from the black leather bag slung over the back of her chair. “That’s fucking bold.”

“It’s a nice change of pace,” Meredith rebutted, taking a photo of the receipt for the expense report. “The Chefs kiss our asses so often that it’s refreshing to see one so....”

“Arrogant?”

The culinary field wasn’t exactly known for raising the most hospitable professionals. Despite the profession itself being rooted in nurturing others, cooks tended to attack each meal with the vigor of a soldier on the front lines.

However, since the Critic and her colleagues could make or break careers overnight, the culinary tyrants typically made attempts at an out-of-shape smile or joke.

Not that they announced themselves. On the contrary, the food journalists attempted to stay anonymous. Between their late Wednesday night reservation to the multiple dishes no two women could finish alone, however, restaurant staff typically sniffed them out before the main courses were decided upon.

From there, it was typically an evening of being tended to like royalty. As much as Amelia hated to admit it, the Chef’s words annoyed her not because he was rude, but because he was right. She’d forgotten how to do things any way but her own.

Amelia took a swish of wine in hopes of cooling her temper. The rush of self-awareness cooling her senses. “I’m sorry. I’m being harsh.”

“Actually, I’m glad you’re finally letting off steam,” Meredith said in a way that Amelia knew she meant it. “I just wish you’d direct this fire at the man who deserves it rather than the one who just fed us the best baklava I’ve tasted in my life.”

“Fine, but…” Amelia sighed, still weaning herself off the tantrum. “The tirokafteri was a little too spicy.”

Meredith only smiled before plopping a mint into her mouth, sucking on it as she leaned onto her forearms as if to tell Amelia a secret. “You can’t handle a little heat?”

“Whose side are you on?” Amelia had been so focused on getting out of the restaurant that she hadn’t noticed how Meredith’s eyes widened, offering a slight shake of the head amidst her continued criticism. “I’m only saying that overwhelming the senses is not conducive to a pleasurable meal.”

“It sounds like you need to expand your horizons.”

The feeling of the Chef’s gravely voice at her back reverberated down Amelia’s spine. She turned to silently watch him place boxes of leftovers they hadn’t requested onto the table before turning back towards the kitchen.

Amelia and Meredith retreated to a bar across the street to unwind from the humiliating encounter. It’d taken two more glasses of wine before Amelia was able to find the same level of humor in the memory as her colleague had.

“He was going to know our thoughts anyway, right?” Amelia continued, beating the dead horse until it was minced enough to make a dish out of.

“Right. Even though we probably would have left out the personal effects you lightly spattered in your verbal assault.”

The Critic pressed her face into the palms of her hands, elbows resting on the bartop before her empty wine glass. “I can never show my face on this block again.”

“The restaurants here are pretentious anyway.” Meredith turned toward the bartender. “You heard me! Pretentious!”

The bartender simply nodded before handing them each a glass of water. Amelia was grateful to her friend for giving her something to cringe about the next morning that wasn’t her own behavior. They’d be banned from this neighborhood together.

“My car is here.” Meredith looked down at her phone, the Uber notification lighting up the screen. “Are you okay if I head out?”

Amelia nodded before stepping down from the barstool and following her friend to the busy city street. With a hug, Meredith dipped into her ride share, leaving Amelia to wait for her own on the corner. She’d raised her face to the night sky, trying to visualize the stars permanently hidden by the city’s lights, when she heard a door slam shut from across the street. No… not shut.

The black door of the Chef’s restaurant had been thrown open. The solid, steel surface had carelessly struck the building’s vintage brick. Drunken passersby stopped to look into the restaurants as they stumbled toward their next destination.

Peeking into the restaurant’s lobby, Amelia was surprised to see it empty. The hostess table and dining room had been tidied up and readied for the next day’s guests. The only sign anyone was there at all was the steam barreling out from the kitchen.

Like a proverbial moth to a literal flame, the Critic walked toward it.

Amelia wrapped her oversized blazer closer to her body before entering the kitchen to find the Chef alone. Facing away from her, his manic movements danced across the pots and pans on the stove before him. He only paused for a swig of red wine straight from the bottle.

Every sober sense yelled at her to leave. Every drunken one insisted that she stay.

“Should you be drinking?”

The words escaped Amelia’s lips before she was fully convinced she wanted to say them. The look of shock etched onto the Critic’s face when he whirled toward her quickly dissolved into something more playful. Lazily leaning against the counter, his expression gave way to a curious lightness for the first time that evening as he brought the bottle to his lips for a long moment.

“Always critiquing,” the Chef tsked as he used his black apron to wipe the drop of wine that had escaped his lips. He did not attempt to hide his glazed eyes as he pulled two wine glasses from the cabinet and split the rest of the red wine between them. “Oliver.”

“Amelia,” the Critic offered as she took the glass as the Chef — Oliver — turned back toward the burners.

“Drink,” Oliver tossed over his shoulder, as he rummaged through a drawer beside his work station, pocketing a small object before turning back towards Amelia.

Amelia moved forward in an attempt to see what he was cooking, only stopping when Oliver turned toward her.

“Is it too spicy for you?” Oliver mocked, pointing at Amelia’s untouched glass of wine. She took a hesitant sip in response before placing it on the counter.

“That was unprofessional.” Amelia squeezed her eyes shut as if she could physically push the memory from her brain. “Everything else was incredible. I’m just a little sensitive to…”

“Arrogance?”

Amelia genuinely wondered if she should leave the city. As if this were a sign to careers, homes, and lives altogether. “You heard that?”

“I heard that.” Oliver nodded. Wiping his hands on his apron, he set the heat to simmer before turning towards her, leaning against the stove. “I used to work with your… ex?”

“Of course you did,” Amelia paled upon realizing how an awkward situation only dipped deeper into planning her grand escape. “Well, you can add this to the list of stupid things I’ve done or said to bond over. I’m sure he’s told you plenty already.”

“He didn’t speak of you at all, actually.” She wasn’t prepared for the sting. “Which is why I didn’t feel guilty letting my thoughts wander every time you visited the restaurant.”

Oliver’s words washed over her like a soothing balm sent to heal the initial burn, leaving her speechless.

“More,” Oliver’s lips turned upward into a smirk, tongue running across his teeth as he picked up the glass and handed it to her.

Instinctively, she grabbed it from him and took a sip of the thick cabernet before setting it on the marble top once more.

“Did I say you could stop?” Oliver leaned into her, picking up the glass from where she’d discarded it once more. Instead of handing it to her, however, he raised it so that the rim was resting on her lips. “The least you could do in my kitchen is follow instructions.”

Amelia’s face flushed as she took the glass, tipping it just slightly. As she began to pull it from her mouth, Oliver’s fingers — still at the glass’s base — held it to her lips.

Another light tsk. Enough for Amelia to take another sip, then another, and another. She waited for Oliver to remove his fingers, but he didn’t. On the contrary, he tilted it so she had to lean her head back further. The last bits of wine in the glass spilling onto her as she choked. Satisfied, Oliver took the glass and set it on the counter as Amelia grabbed a paper towel to wipe the spill from where it ran down her chin and across her cream top.

“Before that hits, you need to make a decision.” Oliver scanned the length of her body from where she continued to pat at her face. The smirk hadn’t left his face since they’d begun playing this game as if some karmic power was reminding her that first impressions are often entirely wrong. “I can call you a cab, and you can go home to write whatever ostentatious piece you want about me or… You can stay and try a new recipe.”

Amelia pretended to check the gold watch beneath her blazer, gently shaking her head to clear her head, unsure if she was brave enough to agree to what she knew she wanted. As if reading her mind, Oliver placed a thumb on her lip, guiding her mouth ajar. “Wider.”

She didn’t resist.

“You can be a good listener.”