Sinful Desire

The restaurant opened up like a cathedral, it was an embodiment of modern luxury and effortless elegance. The space was defined by the sheer, breath-taking volume of airy grandeur, softened by the plush expanse of cream leather and the dizzying height of the ceiling above. Gosh it was so high. To the left, a towering wall stretched two storeys high, its glass panes turning into vast, obsidian mirrors and suspending from the distant ceiling on impossibly thin wires was a constellation of massive glass spheres hovering over the centre of the room. They burned with molten intensity, their irregular, organic textures catching the light like embers trapped in ice. Hung at staggering heights, they cascaded downward like a waterfall of illuminated glass, breaking the vast emptiness of the atrium. There were long, theatrical shadows stretched across the stone walls as a soft, amber luminance rained down upon the diners below. Walking on the impeccably polished marble floor resembled a dark lake, rippling with golden reflections from the orbs above and beneath this celestial display, the dining area was arranged with geometric precision. The tables gleamed like dark islands of polished lacquer, each set with silverware that caught the flicker of the overhead orbs. The curved armchairs, were upholstered in the colour of heavy cream, designed with a rounded back to embrace the diners as they sank into their seats. The air carried the faint scent of expensive coffee, starched linen and opulence. To the very right stood a mezzanine, an upper level suggesting the restaurant was part of a larger atrium. The private dining space hovered like a sanctuary, reserved only for intimate dinners and discreet meetings.

I glanced at my watch.

Twenty minutes late.

Lana and I moved swiftly toward the elevator that climbed to the upper level. Mr. Betton loved his privacy; this elevated section, just to the right of the restaurant, was his personal retreat—leased exclusively for him and renewed yearly.

Tonight, however, it was set for a family dinner. As we stepped into the space, the Betton table came into view. I offered Mr. Betton a welcoming smile, hoping to ease some of the irritation I sensed simmering behind his eyes. It didn’t work.

He despised lateness.

“You’re late,” Mrs. Betton offered, her words softened by a coy smile.

“It’s my fault, Mom. I had to finish some paperwork for tomorrow’s laboratory practical,” Lana replied, lowering herself onto her seat and draping the tablecloth over her lap.

“You know you don’t have to work there, right, darling?” Mr. Betton interjected.

“Here we go again. Dad, I love my job. I like being a laboratory assistant. You’re not going to shame me for that,” Lana said, her tone dry and clipped.

The air tightened as tension coiled in the air between father and daughter, and I felt the need to intervene. Fast. Mr. Betton had always struggled with Lana’s career choice. “It cannot build generational wealth.” he’d argued, his worry threaded through the stress he imagined she would endure—and the modest income he deemed unworthy of a billionaire’s daughter. He couldn’t fathom why she would resist a life of luxury when he could provide it, why she refused to join the family business. Every attempt to sway her had failed, leaving him frustrated, nearly at wit’s end.

“I appreciate you setting up the interview at McCullen Heights, Mr. Betton,” I said, offering a broad smile.

“That’s the least I could do Robin, seeing as you’ve stubbornly rejected all plans to entice you too into the real estate market.”

“Dad, people have passions and ambitions in various fields,” Lana said. “You can’t convince everyone to venture into real estate.”

Uh-oh. Did this intervention just backfire?

“You want to be your own boss, not be bossed around. What have I told you about entrepreneurship?” Mr. Betton countered.

“You’ve made that clear, Dad. Entrepreneurship is one way to build generational wealth—but maybe some people genuinely love having regular jobs. Perhaps some of us—even your daughters fall into that category.”

“That’s enough, both of you. Choose what you want from the menu.” Mrs. Betton huffed, glancing between Lana and I, restoring a fragile calm to the room.

Did it just get worse?

The room fell into a quiet rhythm, interrupted only by the clinking of cutlery and the servers moving between courses. The silence was unsettling.

Lana and I were both satisfied with our lives, our careers…

Or maybe that was only half true.

“How’s the place treating you, Robin? You have what you want there?” Mr. Betton asked, spooning a heap of Eton mess into his mouth.

“Um… it’s great, Mr. Betton. I really appreciate your recommendation,” I said, my voice flat.

Would Lana feel betrayed if I accepted a job in the family business? Working with Jack was already proving… complicated.

“You don’t seem particularly elated, my girl,” he observed.

I forced a smile. “I am, actually. I just… wasn’t expecting a young CEO.” I said, my voice laced with sarcasm. I needed to get an idea of this man’s age.

Did I just say young? Try a devastatingly perfect man—one my body reacts to without warning.

“I wouldn’t call almost forty young,” Mr. Betton chuckled, “but he does carry it well. Took over operations at a tender age with his cousin. Hardworking, dedicated. Just as I was.” He leaned back, smug with pride.

Almost Forty? He looked too perfect for almost forty!

“You know,” he continued, “the business is open to you if you ever decide to join. I’ll teach you the ropes.”

Mr. Betton smiled warmly at me. He and Lindsey had never treated me as less than Lana, following the death of my parents. Their affection was evident in everything they did. Still, I shifted uneasily in my seat. No matter the bond I shared with Lana, I didn’t want her to think I sought to usurp her place as the heiress.

“Robin, you could consider it if you’re uncomfortable at McCullen Confectionery.” Lana blurted out, oblivious to our company.

What is she thinking?

I shot her a pointed look; she returned it with a quick murmur beneath her breath.

“You’re not comfortable at your job, darling?” Lindsey asked. Her expression tightened, concern settling deep in her eyes.

“No… well, I mean… no job is easy, Lindsey. But I’ll adapt soon enough,” I offered hastily, spinning a plausible story.

They couldn’t know about the sinful desire already taking root inside me. Or the dangerous tension simmering between the boss and me.

What the hell, Lana?

“There’s always a place for you whenever you decide to join us, Robin. No pressure,” Mr. Betton added, his expression easing into a reassuring smile.

What was happening between Jack and me was nothing more than a minor emotional snag.

Or so I told myself...

Besides, I’d only been there a week. I could do this—with or without this relentless need for Jack. I accepted my virgin Margarita as the waiter served it around our table. I sipped slowly, silently hoping Jack wouldn’t come up again in the conversation. This dinner was about Lana and her parents. I wasn’t going to steal the limelight with my unresolved desire for a matured unavailable man.