It was a sinner's suicide for anyone to work at Coopers Incorporation. It was no surprise that people aimed to stray far from the Devil known as Mr Elijah Cooper.
Cold, demanding, and rough, he ruled over everything with an iron grip and a calculati...
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Nora's P.O.V
The Waldorf Astoria Las Vegas. That’s where he had taken me. A towering structure of steel and glass, a fortress in the heart of the Strip, its design prioritizing security over artistry. I found the lack of creativity uninspiring, but then again, Las Vegas had its own kind of magic—neon lights weaving illusions of grandeur and excess. Regardless, one thing was undeniable: it was expensive. And Elijah Cooper only spent his time and money in places that acknowledged his power. If it wasn’t exclusive, it wasn’t worthy of him.
“We’ll be dining at Twist. A French restaurant here,” Elijah informed me, his voice impassive as he steered the car into the underground parking lot.
“What are we doing here?” I asked, watching him carefully.
“I’ll tell you once we’re settled in,” he replied, his eyes flickering toward mine before returning to the road. “Patience, Miss Jones.”
A quick internet search told me that Twist was the epitome of fine dining—helmed by a three Michelin starred chef, Pierre Gagnaire, renowned for his ability to merge classic French cuisine with avant-garde techniques.
Once we had parked, we made our way to the elevators, Elijah’s presence as commanding as ever. He placed a hand at the small of my back, a simple touch, yet deliberate. A quiet claim. My body stiffened at first, unaccustomed to such casual contact from him, but I didn’t pull away. In truth, I liked the weight of his hand, the way it guided me effortlessly. A silent contradiction to his usual distance.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing a breathtaking space. Floor-to-ceiling glass framed the dazzling Las Vegas skyline, a sea of lights stretching infinitely beneath us. Inside, glass orbs floated like suspended droplets of champagne, catching the soft glow of the chandeliers. A grand staircase led to a second-story wine cellar, encased in glass, showcasing some of the rarest vintages in the world. The tables were adorned with fresh purple and white florals, their delicate beauty an understated contrast to the wealth surrounding them.
It was elegance without ostentation—sophistication with an edge of restraint.
“Mr. Elijah Cooper with Miss Nora Jones,” Elijah announced to the hostess, his voice sharp, assured. He had already moved ahead, leaving me to follow, as if I were an afterthought.
The hostess, a polished woman in her mid-thirties, glanced up from her tablet, her eyes immediately lighting up in recognition. Within seconds, she had retrieved our menus and a basket of warm, artisanal bread.
“Of course, Mr. Cooper,” she said, her tone professional yet reverent. “Your table is ready. Please follow me.”
She led us to a secluded table at the far end of the restaurant, offering the most stunning view of the Strip. I hesitated for a moment, my gaze sweeping over the room, drinking in the contrast between the opulence of the interior and the raw energy of the city beyond the glass. A stark reminder of two worlds existing simultaneously—the one we displayed and the one we kept hidden.
