IRIS

The restaurant is dimly lit, the kind of place where the candles do more work than the chandeliers. Soft jazz plays in the background, blending seamlessly with the gentle clinking of cutlery and murmured conversations.

I sit across from Darian at a table adorned with crisp white linen and gleaming silverware.

He looks effortlessly elegant tonight, his dark suit tailored to perfection, the top button of his shirt undone just enough to hint at the strength beneath.

His eyes, those intense, stormy eyes, meet mine, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of us.

"You look beautiful, Iris," he says, his voice a low murmur...