The night air was cool and gentle when we arrived at the restaurant, the soft breeze brushing against my skin as though welcoming me into a different world—one far from the walls of the Thompson mansion, far from Sylvia's cruelty, far from the life I had known for years. It felt unreal to be sitting beside Dave, stepping into a place beautifully lit with dim golden lights and filled with the quiet murmur of well-dressed people enjoying their meals.
When we entered, Dave pulled out a chair for me with a kind gesture.
"Sit, Chant," he said with a small smile.
I sat gracefully, still conscious of my white gown hugging my body and the faint wavy curls Clara had given me earlier. I felt strangely confident… and strangely nervous.
A waitress approached.
"What can I get for you, sir?"
"Red wine," Dave said. Then he looked at me, smiling again. "Something light."
My heart beat faster—maybe from nervousness, maybe from the unfamiliar environment, or maybe from the way he kept looking at me.
When the waitress left, Dave leaned forward a little.
"Are you okay?" he asked gently.
I nodded.
He chuckled softly. "You look uncomfortable. Maybe because you've never gone out with a man before? Don't worry, Chant. I'm not going to harm you. Relax."
His tone was soft enough to pull a shy smile out of me, and he relaxed too when he saw it.
Soon the waitress returned with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. She poured for us, and Dave lifted his glass slightly toward me.
"Cheers, Miss Chantel."
I smiled back and took a small sip.
The taste surprised me—sweet, smooth, almost too easy to drink.
"So," Dave began, "How is the project going? I hope it's not giving you too much stress."
"Not at all," I replied. "I'm fully prepared."
"That's good. I heard you learned everything so fast. I'm proud of you, Chant."
I looked away shyly, focusing on the soft music playing, the quiet laughter around us… anything to distract myself from how his words made my heart thump.
"Chant," he called again.
"Yes, Mr. Dave?"
"How old are you? I just realized I never asked."
"I'm twenty-one."
He smiled. "Twenty-one… You're not too young. I'll be thirty-two in a few months. I know, I know—I'm old, right?"
I laughed softly but didn't answer. He sipped his wine and watched me with a warmth I couldn't really understand.
Then his tone changed—gentle, but serious.
"Chant… I want to tell you something. Please—if it doesn't work for you, or if you don't accept it, don't run away from me. Okay?"
My heart stopped for a moment.
Oh no… is he about to say what I think?
He sat up straighter.
"Chant, I've known you for a long time… long enough to know—"
He suddenly stopped talking because a hand tapped his shoulder.
I recognized the fragrance even before I looked up.
It was him.
Mr. Thompson.
My breath caught.
He was standing beside Dave—jeans, polo, casual but still commanding. His presence filled the space instantly.
Dave looked surprised.
"Thompson? What are you doing here?"
Thompson shook his hand and then took a seat beside us.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything. You told me the name of the restaurant, and I was bored at home… so I came to join you two."
His eyes shifted to me, and he smiled—one of those small smiles that always unsettled me.
"Chantel, you look beautiful. I hope my brother isn't stressing you."
Dave laughed lightly.
"No, not at all. We were just talking."
Thompson nodded.
"Good. Have you both eaten?"
"Not really," Dave answered, "but I think Chantel's full already."
Thompson's gaze returned to me, warm and soft.
"Chant, I heard you're fully prepared for your modeling next week?"
I nodded.
"Is there anything you need for preparation?"
"No, Mr. Thompson. You've already provided enough."
"Okay. If you need anything, tell me."
Dave cleared his throat loudly.
"So, Chant… what I was telling you earlier, I don't think I should say it here. We'll talk another time."
I nodded, still unsure what he wanted to confess.
I returned to sipping my wine. But with each sip, the taste felt sweeter… smoother… warmer.
Before I knew it, the glass was empty.
I poured more.
Then more.
I laughed—too loudly, too freely—at jokes that weren't even funny.
My vision softened.
The room swayed.
Just as I lifted the bottle again, Thompson's hand grabbed it from mine.
He read the label and frowned.
"Three percent alcohol?" He looked sharply at Dave. "Dave!"
Dave raised both hands.
"I swear, Thompson, I didn't know three percent could do this to her."
Thompson turned to me, and I was staring at him like an idiot, giggling softly.
He asked for ice and soft drink and mixed them, then handed me the glass.
"Drink this."
I drank eagerly.
Suddenly, Dave's phone rang.
He excused himself and went outside to take the call.
I felt the urge to pee.
I tried to stand… but sat back down immediately.
Thompson rushed to steady me.
"Where are you going?"
"I want to go to the bathroom…"
He wrapped an arm around my waist to keep me from stumbling.
The warmth… the closeness…
My heart nearly burst.
On the way, I slipped a little—and he lifted me.
Not like a child.
Not like a burden.
But like someone he wanted to protect.
My arms tightened around his neck instinctively.
I looked at his lips—soft, close, tempting.
Before my body could stop me…
I kissed him.
A soft, desperate, unexpected kiss.
And he kissed me back.
His hand went behind my neck, deepening it.
A gentle, warm, intoxicating French kiss that took my breath away.
When reality snapped back, I gasped and pulled away.
Oh God.
What did I just do?
I wanted to disappear.
He slowly lowered me to my feet, expression unreadable.
I hurried inside the bathroom and shut the door.
I slapped my lips.
I hit my head.
"Oh no… what did I just do? I kissed Mr. Thompson. Oh no…"
I sat on the toilet lid, burying my face in my hands.
He must be angry.
He must be disgusted.
He must think I'm shameless.
But the memory…
The softness of his lips…
It made me smile before I shook myself back to reality.
Why am I smiling?
Stop smiling, Chant!
A gentle knock came.
"Chant? Are you okay?"
His voice. Deep. Calm.
My heart dropped.
"Yes," I squeaked. "I'm fine, Mr. Thompson."
I opened the door but kept my head down, refusing to meet his eyes.
He held my wrist gently.
"Let's go back."
We returned to the table.
He didn't let go of my hand.
"Chant," he said softly, "I think it's time to go home. You're not okay. Once we reach, you'll take a warm shower and rest. No chores tonight. No walking around. Go straight to your bed. Understood?"
I nodded quickly—even though inside I was melting.
He was… caring.
Possessive.
Protective.
Dave was still on his call outside. When he saw us approaching, he ended it.
"Chant, I'm sorry. I didn't know it would affect you like this."
He reached out to hold me, but Thompson stepped in front of me—fast, firm, almost instinctively protective.
"Dave," Thompson said, "we'll use my car. I'll drive her home. Follow us behind."
Dave studied him for a moment, then nodded.
Thompson helped me into his car.
During the drive, he kept glancing at me—watching, checking, worrying.
Once we reached the compound, Dave's car was already parked.
He stood waiting.
But Thompson opened my door first, led me out by my wrist, and practically shielded me as we walked inside.
Dave tried to offer his arm again, but Thompson tightened his hold on me and led me straight to my room door.
He didn't leave immediately.
"Chant," he said quietly, almost in a whisper.
"Go inside. Take a warm shower. Lock your door. No coming out tonight. I mean it."
I nodded, my heart thumping.
He waited until I closed the door.
I heard his footsteps fade.
I fell onto my bed, breathless, confused, overwhelmed.
What was happening?
What had tonight become?
I slowly went to shower, the warm water calming my spinning head.
When I returned to my bed, sleep came instantly—deep and heavy.
But the memory of that kiss lingered in my dreams…
And in my heart.