CHAPTER 8

KIMANI

Alaric’s hand didn’t leave my waist until we slid into the backseat of his sleek black car. And I didn't say anything about it.

“Where are we going?” I asked as the engine purred to life.

“You’ll see,” he replied, his tone smooth, final—like a man who didn’t bother explaining himself twice. Well, he definitely doesn't explain himself, or repeat himself.

I sat back in the car, waiting to see where he actually plans to have lunch, probably the usual fancy restaurant you can find any CEO.

The car glided through the city streets, tinted windows sealing us in a world apart. I peered outside, watching buildings blur by. It couldn’t have been more than a ten-minute ride—definitely walkable—but then again, I supposed Alaric Walker didn’t walk anywhere. Not unless he wanted the paparazzi swarming like vultures over a carcass.

The thought made me shiver. His world was a goldfish bowl—glass walls, always on display. And somehow, by marrying him, I’d been dropped straight into it.

When the car finally slowed, my brows shot up. Of all places, he had chosen;

“The Grand Marquette?” I breathed, staring at the towering glass hotel before us. One of the most exclusive places in the city. I’d only ever seen it in glossy magazines or on influencers’ feeds.

Alaric stepped out first, the driver rushing to open my door. His hand extended toward me, steady and commanding, and for a second I debated leaving him hanging just to be difficult. But the row of flashing cameras already waiting across the street decided for me.

I slipped my hand into his. His fingers closed firmly around mine.

The effect was immediate. Gasps, rapid camera clicks, voices calling our names like we were celebrities striding down a red carpet.

“Mr. Walker! Over here!”

“Mrs. Walker, look this way!”

I blinked against the flurry of camera flashes, heat rushing up my neck. Alaric, of course, didn’t flinch. His posture was perfect, expression cool and untouchable, as though the chaos didn’t even exist.

He didn’t rush me. He didn’t even glance at them. His entire focus was on me as he murmured, low enough for only me to hear, “Chin up, Kimani.”

My chin snapped up before I could stop myself.

“Good,” he said, almost like he was proud. And with that, he guided me smoothly into the hotel lobby. His hands back around my waist.

The change was instant. The noise of the outside world cut off, replaced with the soft hum of a grand piano and the quiet murmur of wealth. Marble floors gleamed, chandeliers dripped crystals, and the scent of roses floated faintly in the air. Staff bowed their heads the moment they spotted Alaric, and I swear some guests actually whispered his name like he was royalty.

I leaned closer and whispered, “You come to places like this often, don’t you?”

“Only when I want privacy,” he said.

I nearly laughed. Privacy? In the most famous hotel in the city? But then a suited concierge appeared as if by magic, greeting him with Mr. Walker, Mrs. Walker, right this way. No hesitation. No questions. Straight through a set of golden doors and up a private elevator.

When the doors opened again, I found myself in a breathtaking rooftop restaurant. The city stretched endlessly below, skyscrapers glittering against the daylight. Only a handful of tables were scattered across the terrace, all empty.

Of course. He’d cleared the entire place.

I turned to him, eyes wide. “Alaric… you rented out the whole side?”

His lips curved faintly, the ghost of a smile. “You don’t like attention. So I removed it.”

For a second, I couldn’t find words. He said it so casually, like ordering a coffee instead of orchestrating something so extravagant.

I just shook my head. Rich people.

We took our seat facing each other, immediately a server was there pouring wine into our glasses. Wine that I don't think I will be drinking.

After doing that, she handed us a menu. The booklet was looking too fancy with gold lined letters on a pretty black background.

She lingered politely, pen poised above a small leather notepad.

Alaric’s gaze flicked to me, silent but expectant.

I froze. Oh. Right. I was supposed to go first.

“Uh…” I cleared my throat, brain short-circuiting as I scanned the menu in front of me. Elegant fonts spelled out dishes I couldn’t even pronounce, let alone recognize. Pan-seared foie gras? Lobster bisque? Something with truffle foam?

I bit my lip. For some reason, my mouth didn’t get the memo that this was The Grand Marquette rooftop restaurant, and instead blurted, “Can I just get… a burger and fries? With, um, extra pickles. And maybe a milkshake if you have one?”

The silence that followed nearly sent me diving under the table. My cheeks burned hot enough to roast marshmallows.

The server didn’t even blink just scribbled neatly on the pad—but I felt the heat of Alaric’s stare like a spotlight. Slowly, carefully, I glanced at him.

His expression was unreadable.

Then, finally, his mouth tilted. Not quite a smile, but close. “Make it two,” he told the server smoothly. “And a medium-rare ribeye as well.”

The waiter bowed. “Of course, sir. The meals will be ready shortly.” She whisked away like nothing about that order was strange at all.

I slumped back in my chair, covering my face with my hands. “Oh my God. I forgot where I was. Did I really just—”

“Yes,” Alaric said, his voice cutting in, calm as ever. “You did.”

I peeked at him between my fingers. “You’re enjoying this.”

His gaze locked on mine, steady, deliberate. “I don't mind. I like that you don’t pretend.”

"Oh, okay. Good to know." I simply said.

It wasn't even up to five minutes and I was already restless. I kept playing with the cutleries and napkins, swirling my wine in the glass-without drinking it. Alaric was just staring at me.

“Are you just going to sit in silence?” I asked, finally breaking under the weight of his stare and what felt like hours - even though it has just been five minutes.

His brow arched the tiniest bit. “I’m eating lunch. What do you want me to do, fill the air with pointless chatter?”

“Yes!” I blurted. Then, softer, “Well… not pointless chatter, exactly. But we could… play a game.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them. My brain scrambled, already regretting it. This was Alaric Walker. He didn’t play games. He probably thought board games were for people who had nothing better to do with their lives.

To my surprise, he leaned back in his chair, lips curving faintly. “A game?”

I nodded quickly, trying to look more confident than I felt. “Yes. Something simple. We’ll take turns asking questions. No boring business talk, no dodging, no lying. Just answers.”

He studied me in silence for a long moment, like he was weighing whether to dismiss me or indulge me. Then, at last, he inclined his head. “Fine. You go first.”

My eyes widened. “Wait, you agreed that easily?”

“I said fine. Don’t push your luck.”

I grinned, relief bubbling up in my chest. “Okay. Um… what’s your favorite color?”

His brows rose ever so slightly, as though he hadn’t expected that. “Black.”

“Of course,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

“You don’t like the answer?”

“It’s boring,” I teased. “You look like someone who’d secretly like… navy blue or maybe emerald green. Something dark but still secretly fancy.”

He didn’t rise to the bait, only gave me that flat, unreadable look. “My turn.”

I straightened in my chair. “Fine. Shoot.”

“Why pickles?”

“What?”

“You ordered extra pickles. Why?”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Because I like them? They’re crunchy and sour and delicious.”

He tilted his head slightly, as if filing that away for future use. “Hm.”

“Is that your scary businessman way of saying you’re judging me?”

“Not judging,” he said smoothly. “Just… noting.”

I narrowed my eyes, suspicious. “You’re going to use that against me somehow, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Unbelievable.” I shook my head, laughing under my breath. “Okay, my turn. Do you ever… sing in the shower?”

For the first time, his composure actually cracked. His lips twitched. “No.”

“You hesitated,” I accused, pointing a finger at him.

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did. Which means you do. Oh my God, what do you sing? Don’t tell me it’s opera. You totally look like the kind of man who would sing dramatic opera in the shower. Or do you secretly sing Disney songs."

His voice dipped lower, amused but still steady. “You’re out of questions.”

“No way. That’s not fair. You have to answer—”

Before I could press further, the waiter returned with our plates, setting down two perfectly stacked burgers and a ribeye steak that smelled like heaven.

“Saved by the food,” I muttered, eyeing him suspiciously as the waiter slipped away.

The game was long forgotten as I practically inhaled my meal.

By the time I demolished the last of my fries, I slumped against the chair, patting my stomach with a satisfied groan. “Best. Lunch. Ever.”

Alaric dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin, neat and precise as always. His plate looked like it belonged in a museum—perfectly cut steak pieces lined up, nothing out of place. Meanwhile, mine looked like a crime scene. But I'm proud of it.

His eyes flicked to me, unreadable as always, then he asked, “Do you still have room for dessert?”

I perked up instantly. “There’s always room for dessert.”

That earned me one of his almost-smiles, the kind that flashed so briefly I almost doubted I’d seen it. A waiter reappeared on cue, menu in hand. I snatched it before Alaric could even move.

“Hmm…” I scanned the glossy pages. “Oh my God, they have molten lava cake. With vanilla ice cream. And—wait—cheesecake. Ugh, why do they always make me choose?”

The waiter glanced between us patiently.

“I’ll have the lava cake,” I decided, nodding firmly. “Extra ice cream, please.”

The waiter scribbled, then turned to Alaric.

“Espresso,” he said smoothly.

I whipped my head toward him. “That’s not dessert. That’s… bitter bean water.”

He raised a brow, completely unbothered. “It’s what I prefer.”

“No. Absolutely not. You’re in one of the fanciest rooftop restaurants in the city, and you’re telling me you want to end this entire amazing lunch with… coffee?”

“It’s not coffee,” he corrected calmly. “It’s espresso.”

“Still boring.”

“Efficient,” he countered, his tone flat but his eyes carrying that faint glimmer I was beginning to recognize—the one that meant he was entertained.

“Boring,” I shot back, grinning.

When the waiter left, I leaned forward on my elbows. “You need to live a little, Alaric. Lava cake is life-changing. It’s gooey and warm and sweet and messy and—”

“Messy,” he repeated, cutting me off.

I faltered. “…Okay, fine, maybe messy isn’t your thing. But still, it’s worth it. You can’t just—”

The waiter returned again, saving him, just like before. My lava cake arrived in all its glory, a tiny mountain oozing molten chocolate, crowned with a perfect scoop of vanilla. Alaric’s espresso, meanwhile, looked exactly as boring as I imagined—tiny, dark, bitter, and serious, like him in a cup.

I dug my spoon straight into the cake, ignoring how hot it was, and let out a blissful sigh. “See? Heaven. Absolute heaven.”

Alaric stirred his espresso once, then sipped it with all the elegance of a king at a throne. He didn’t comment, but his gaze lingered on me, steady and intent, as if watching me enjoy myself was its own kind of indulgence.

I pointed my spoon at him mid-bite. “One day, you’re going to taste this, and I swear, your entire life philosophy will change.”

His lips curved faintly again. “Unlikely.”

“Challenge accepted,” I muttered, scooping up another bite.