Just before the final class ended, Isabella's phone vibrated softly against the desk.
She glanced down.
This time, there were no unnecessary words. No greeting. No explanation. Just a restaurant name followed by a precise address.
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
At least he isn't coming to pick me up.
That single thought eased a knot in her chest. The idea of Victor Steele appearing on campus was enough to make her nerves fray. She slipped her phone into her bag as the bell rang and joined the slow stream of students filing out of the classroom.
The restaurant name lingered in her mind.
She'd heard of it before. A private French restaurant run by a chef whose temper was as famous as his food. Only twenty guests were served each day. Reservations were booked months in advance, and even then, not everyone could secure a table. It was the kind of place Averton City's elite treated like their personal dining room.
Her steps slowed.
