THE TWO DESSERTS were, for Meggie, the finest part of the Prestige Menu — a true sin disguised as gastronomic luxury, a fair reward for a dinner that had been, in equal measure, a confession, a battle of ironies, and a verbal dance.
— This is divine! — Meggie exclaimed, slowly savoring the crème brûlée as though each spoonful were a secret perfectly burned beneath the golden sugar crust.
The crack of the caramelized layer beneath her spoon made Saul smile. In that instant, he realized there was something dangerously enchanting about watching her taste a dessert: the simple gesture felt like a profane ceremony.
After a few unsettling revelations — among them, the "confession" that his assistant was, in her own words, a witch — the journalist decided it was wiser to change the tone of the conversation. They laughed about life's coincidences and finished the tasting menu talking about blues music, a subject that floated naturally between them. Saul, a lover of classical music, preferred Chopin and Debussy, while Meggie confessed her fascination with rebellious riffs and lyrics. Her Spotify playlist was a sonic map of the counterculture: The Doors, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Janis Joplin...
That woman... — Saul thought — was the perfect antithesis... chaos wrapped in jasmine perfume...
As soon as Saul parked the car in front of an old mansion in Chelsea, the song "Angel of the Morning," sung in Nina Fabrizzio's husky and melancholic voice, began playing on the radio. The velvety timbre filled the interior of the car, saturating the air with nostalgia.
— No way! — Meggie looked up, her eyes sparkling. — I haven't heard this song in ages... I love this woman's voice. And I love these lyrics.
She closed her eyes and, smiling softly, began to sing.
— "Just call me angel of the morning. Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby..."
Her voice blended with Nina's, and Saul, suddenly motionless, realized he had never heard something so simple sound so disturbingly intimate.
— That won't be difficult — he replied, his voice low with the tone of a man surrendering to a spell without resistance.
She's enchanting... — he thought, watching her sing, every word sounding like a promise.
When the song ended, Meggie turned toward him, her lips still moist from singing and a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.
— Will you walk me to my door?
— I would never let you go alone — Saul replied with a smile as he retrieved his cane from behind the seat. — Who knows what monsters might appear along the way?
— Could this monster happen to be a gentleman who knows everything about wine? — she teased.
— If so, at least he has good taste — he answered with restrained humor.
She slipped her arm through his, and together they walked toward the entrance.
— You only use that cane to look more elegant — Meggie joked, her gaze trying to disguise her interest.
— It became my inseparable companion after the car accident.
— I'll never forget that day — she replied, softening her tone. — It was my first tasting menu.
— Neither will I — Saul said. — After all, the first time you dine with a witch is... unforgettable.
— And weren't you afraid?
— I haven't turned into a frog yet.
— Lucky you. It was the first time I didn't have to kiss the frog — Meggie replied, already standing at her front door with a daring smile. — The prince arrived ready-made.
She moved closer slowly. Her lips slightly parted, her eyes half-closed, and a warm sigh drifted into the night air. Driven by an instinct that mixed desire and curiosity, Saul wrapped his right arm around her waist and pulled her toward him. Meggie's body pressed against his, and he could feel her firm, excited breasts beneath the thin fabric of her blouse. Her hardened nipples brushed against his shirt, burning his skin like embers beneath cloth.
An irresistible spell... — he thought seconds before kissing her.
The kiss came naturally, slow and intense, a collision between opposite worlds. For a moment, Meggie surrendered to it, but then she pulled away with a playful smile, her eyes sparkling mischievously.
— I've always wanted to see George Eliot's house... — Saul insinuated, trying to disguise the tremor in his voice.
— Let's discuss Middlemarch instead — she dodged, pretending seriousness.
— One of the greatest novels of the nineteenth century.
— Absolutely.
— I would love to attend this literary colloquium — the journalist insisted, almost pleading beneath the disguise of charm.
— I'm terribly sorry, but it's women-only — she replied with sweet irony, took a step backward, and closed the door with a smile.
Meggie knew exactly how to unsettle him. That kiss had felt like an explicit invitation to end the night in her bed, yet she preferred leaving him standing at the edge of temptation — a calculated game, and she was a skilled player.
The frustration of not sleeping with his assistant followed him back to the car like a mocking ghost. Saul glanced once more at the front door, imagining that perhaps she would open it slightly, offer a gesture, a sign. But nothing. The night returned only silence and the echo of his own desire.
He started the engine and, as he turned the corner, he was invaded by a strange, almost paradoxical feeling: joy. Perhaps it was the intoxication of the wine, or the thrill of having met a woman who confused him more than any headline ever had.
He thought about the priest, picked up his phone, and noticed there were no missed calls. Despite the late hour, he decided to call Raphaniè, but it went straight to voicemail and, for the first time that night, Saul felt the uncomfortable sensation that something far greater was about to happen.