Love at First Night: The Billionaire's First Love-Chapter 67: The Dinner Night

>Mallory

"You’re beautiful."

I almost want to knock myself out as those words kept replaying inside my head. My heart is all giddy like a high school girl.

After that exchange, we rode in a black limousine, and my face stayed warm the entire ride. The car was quiet, the kind of silence that made me painfully aware of my own breathing. I stared out the window at the streak of lights blurring into the night, then back at him, then away again.

He wore a black turtleneck beneath a thick coat, his hair combed perfectly. His legs were crossed, yet the distance between us felt too close.

His eyes fixed on the window, his thumb playing with his lips.

He looked unreal. Was I really allowed to breathe the same air as him? I’m not sure myself.

If a compliment came from someone who looked like a literal god, how was I not supposed to blush? Anyone would feel like this. I was just... human.

That’s right! That is all there is to it.

The car barely came to a full stop before attendants opened the doors.

Everything moved with practiced ease, like we were expected long before we arrived. I suddenly felt aware of my posture, my dress, the way I held myself. Standing beside him made me feel both important and completely out of place.

Venz stepped out first, then turned back and offered his hand.

"Wife?" his eyes fixed on me, my gaze landing on his hand.

I smoothed my skirt, hoping the movement looked natural, and not nervous. My fingers slipped into his palm, my wedding ring catching the faint light from the building. His grip was firm, steady, and reassuring.

With his help, I stepped out of the car.

The restaurant exterior was understated, almost deliberately forgettable. It looked fancy, but not the kind you see once in your lifetime, but the moment we crossed the threshold, the atmosphere shifted.

Warm lighting brushed over polished marble floors, and the faint scent of truffle and wine lingered in the air.

They didn’t approach us with loud greetings. There were no unnecessary questions. Just quiet nods of recognition and the soft sweep of doors opening ahead of us. The staff quietly trailed behind us as if waiting for any orders.

"Right this way, Signore," a staff member who was dressed differently from the other members said, already walking before us.

We were guided past the main dining area and down a private corridor where sound seemed to dissolve. At the end stood a single door. When it opened, my breath caught.

It opened into a VVIP room so carefully designed that it felt less like a restaurant and more like its own building.

There was only one long table positioned beside a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the entire city. Deep red walls absorbed the light, accented with gold detailing that caught just enough glow to feel intentional, not excessive.

It was luxury meant to be felt, not flaunted. My eyes scanned the place.

I bet everything here costs more than I could ever hope to earn in my life.

Venz’s fingers tightened slightly around my waist as we stepped inside. Reminding me that I am with him.

"Relax," he mouthed, a faint smile curled on his lips, then disappeared as we walked.

At the table sat an older man in his early sixties, perhaps—his posture upright, his silver hair neatly combed, posture straight eyes sharp despite the faint lines of age around them.

Across from him sat a woman close to my age. Her auburn hair fell perfectly draped over one shoulder, and her makeup was flawless.

But her gaze felt curious and openly assessing.

Okay. So this is who I’m being compared to.

I swallowed, then held my head high.

"Mr. Seymour," Venz greeted, his voice deep and smooth. "I would like to introduce my beautiful wife."

I smiled at him.

The man stood immediately, his eyes sweeping over me as if appraising me.

"Ah," he said warmly. "She looks beautiful indeed. Una donna così non merita di essere nascosta in casa tua." Mr. Seymous spoke in Italian.

(A woman like this does not deserve to be hidden inside your home.)

Venz smiled faintly. "Il piacere è mio."

(The pleasure is mine.)

I didn’t know if I had to say anything, so I decided to remain quiet. And then the woman beside him rose from her seat.

"And this," Mr. Seymour continued, "is my wife. Lola Seymour. You might be familiar with her—Lola Rave. One of Brave’s highest-paid models. She has been very curious about you."

Curious? I wonder why?

The word landed softly that it seems harmless but the way she looked at me since I stepped inside the room was more than that.

I took Lola’s extended hand, attempting to exchange gestures. Despite her firm grip, her smile was flawless.

I wanted to say I was overthinking it, but there’s no way those grips came from someone who was merely curious.

"Of course," I smiled back anyway. "Who wouldn’t be? It’s a pleasure to meet you."

I actually wasn’t familiar with her. It can be because it hasn’t been six years since she rose to fame. I deleted all of my social media after I moved to New York.

Her eyes lingered a fraction longer than necessary before she released my hand.

"Likewise," she smiled back.

That’s fine. As long as she didn’t openly disrespect me, I expect that much of displeasure knowing the man I called my husband.

We took our seats. The chairs made no sound against the floor. I folded my hands neatly in my lap, aware of the space I occupied and how closely I was being observed.

Almost immediately, the door opened, and the staff returned with a wheeled tray draped in pristine white linen.

Beneath it were several covered dishes, their metal lids reflecting the room’s warm glow. A man who looked to be the chef stepped forward, his uniform crisp white, his movements both precise and confident. The staff placed each one of the covered dishes in front of us.

The chef spoke in Italian, his voice professional and steady.

"Buonasera, signore e signora, per gli antipasti. Quello che avete davanti è il nostro tartare di manzo con tartufo bianco."

(Good evening, sir and madam, for the appetizer. What you have before you is our Beef Tartare with White Truffle.)

He gestured to the staff to lift the metal covers with a flick of his hand, and they all followed. I looked at the small portion of the dish carefully plated in front of me.

"Abbiamo tagliato a mano il miglior filetto di manzo Chianina questa mattina, quanto basta per ottenere una consistenza perfettamente vellutata."

(We hand-cut the finest Chianina beef tenderloin this morning, just enough to achieve a perfectly velvety texture.)

As he spoke, I watched Lola from the corner of my eye. She nodded subtly, as though already familiar with every word, sneaking glances to my husband from time to time.

I don’t feel good about this.

"Condimento semplice: un tocco del nostro olio di senape fatto in casa, erba cipollina fresca e una leggera scorza di limone, per lasciare che la carne parli da sé."

(A simple dressing: a touch of our house-made mustard oil, fresh chives, and a hint of lemon zest, to let the meat speak for itself.)

The chef reached into his apron and withdrew a small grater. From a wooden box, he removed a pale truffle and shaved it into paper-thin slices over the tartare. The earthy, rich aroma bloomed instantly.

"E questo," he continued, "è il cuore del piatto." He added excitedly.

(And this is the heart of the dish.)

"Tartufo bianco delle colline del Piemonte, raccolto la settimana scorsa."

(White truffle from the hills of Piedmont, harvested last week.)

"Consiglio di accompagnarlo con il pane carasau croccante a lato."

(I recommend pairing it with the crisp carasau bread on the side.)

Then he continued to explain how to eat the food right. I just nodded along, listening carefully to make sure I’m not making a mistake that could taint my husband’s name.

"Buon appetito," he said at last, waving his hand in front of us as if to present the dish.

(Enjoy.)

"Buon appetito," Mr. Seymour echoed approvingly.

"Eccellente," Lola also added, her eyes landing on me for a brief moment.

(Excellent.)

"Può andare," my husband said calmly.

(You may go.)

I simply nodded, unsure whether speech was expected from me at all.

The chef inclined his head and turned to leave—

"Mi scusi," Lola said suddenly.

(Excuse me.)

He stopped. "Sì, signora?"

(Yes, madam?)

She turned slightly toward me, her smile still perfectly composed. "È la prima volta che la mia amica viene qui," she said lightly, her eyes pointing towards me.

(It’s the first time my friend has come here.)

"Potrebbe per favore tradurre quello che ha detto in inglese?"

(Would you please translate what you said into English?)

"Dopotutto," she added gently, "non tutti parlano italiano."

(After all, not just anyone can speak Italian.)

I clicked my tongue internally. So, this was the game she wanted to play.