Enchanted Nightfall: Falling for Destiny

Quintessa took a deep breath and slowly extended her hand for a brief, firm handshake with Tyrone.

In front of the director, she couldn’t afford to make a scene with Tyrone. This was her shot, and she had to seize it. Plus, she didn’t want to put Violet in a tight spot.

Since Tyrone was playing the stranger, there was no point in calling him out. Revenge could wait. It wasn’t a dish best served immediately.

Quintessa intended only a quick touch before withdrawing, but to her surprise, as soon as she made contact with Tyrone’s hand, he seized it tightly, refusing to let go. When she was about to lose her cool, he finally released her.

As he let go, Tyrone’s fingers trailed across Quintessa’s palm in a way that made her feel sick.

Everyone there was sharp enough to sense the tension between the two, but they all pretended not to notice.

The producer, a portly middle–aged man with a bald head that gave him a slightly sleazy look, chimed in, “Mr. York, have you dined yet? If not, care to join us?”

Tyrone replied, “Sounds good.”

Quintessa nearly cracked a tooth clenching her jaw. She wouldn’t swallow that bitter pill of resentment. She’d find an opportunity for payback.

By some design or accident, Tyrone took the seat to Quintessa’s right, placing them side by side.

Once seated, Quintessa casually pulled out a pack of wet wipes from her purse and began to clean her hands meticulously, rubbing until they were almost red.

Tyrone’s eyes narrowed slightly.

As the group settled in, discussions about the movie’s locations, shooting, and casting began; over thirty minutes passed, and everyone was sweating from relishing the hot dishes, except Tyrone, who remained cool, sipping water a few times and barely touching his utensils

Quintessa watched with silent scorn. The heir to the York family never shared common dishes with others; he found it distasteful.

Nor would he touch the likes of greasy burgers or buffalo wings what others considered delicacies in a hearty American meal.

Tyrone’s palate was accustomed to the finest – Solaceia foie gras, Beluga caviar, and white truffles.

17:05

The first time Quintessa met Tyrone back then, she quickly learned how fussy he was. Or as she’d put it- she’d never seen a man so high–maintenance. It was a wonder the York family could afford his tastes.

Watching Tyrone now, Quintessa felt a sting of irony. She picked up her glass of fiery bourbon and swallowed it, feeling the burn down her throat.

She was plotting her next move. Having this scumbag Tyrone right in front of her and not acting out was just too much of a bitter pill to swallow.

Glass back on the table, Quintessa turned to him, her face a mask of smiles, “Mr. York, why aren’t you eating? I haven’t seen you touch your cutlery once.”

Tyrone glanced at her, “Tm not hungry.”

Quintessa cooed, “How can it be? Even if you don’t feel hungry, you must try something. We’re all here to dine, aren’t we? It looks bad if you don’t partake. These buffalo wings are delicious; you really should try some.”

With exaggerated hospitality, she reached for a wing, dipped in hot sauce, clearly not Tyrone’s cup of tea. Text content © NôvelDrama.Org.

Tyrone looked at the spicy dish with dread, his fingers tightening, his brow furrowing as he faced Quintessa. She locked eyes with him, her lips curled in a cold sneer, her defiance.

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