A soft spring breeze swept through the streets—the city hadn't yet gone to sleep.
By the time they left the gallery, the streets were bathed in amber from the streetlamps. The distant hum of traffic buzzed faintly, but it didn't disturb the gentle atmosphere that had just begun to blossom between them.
"Do you come around this neighborhood often?" Allison walked beside Sebastian, the hem of her dress swaying lightly in the night air.
"Occasionally," he replied with an easy smile, his stride unhurried. "But tonight, I want to take you somewhere quieter. No noise, no pretenses."
They crossed two blocks and turned into a smaller, quieter alleyway. Nestled there was an old French bistro with no flashy sign, just a single bronze lantern hanging by the door, its light glowing softly over a wall of ivy.
La Petite Aube — The Little Dawn.
When the door opened, the wooden floor creaked gently beneath their feet. The air was rich with the scent of oak barrels and warm butter. A waiter, recognizing Sebastian at once, led them past the livelier window seats to a secluded corner—a small round table dressed in white linen, under a chandelier that cast a pool of warm light like a private stage.
Allison glanced at him quietly. "You know this place well."
"Mm. The owner's mother was a close friend of my father's," he said casually, his tone calm and distant, as if the connection wasn't worth mentioning.
She blinked, then teased, "So… not just a regular guest, but someone with 'VIP privileges,' huh?"
He smiled without answering, and handed her the menu.
She didn't press further, lowering her head to read instead—but in her mind, the calculations began: this man didn't just have taste; he had status.
They ordered seared scallops with lemon-white wine sauce, foie gras custard, and a bottle of Chardonnay. The food hadn't arrived yet, but their glasses were already filled.
"You mentioned earlier you like museums," Allison said, turning her glass slowly by the stem. "So do I. But I'm more drawn to exhibitions of children's book illustrations."
"I know," he said, calm and unreadable. "Your style reminds me of the Sendak era—gentle, with a hint of wildness."
Allison raised an eyebrow. "You… actually know Maurice Sendak?"
"I majored in art history."
She blinked again. "Not finance? Not business?"
"No." He looked at her, half-smiling. "But in the end, I joined the family company anyway. A… compromise, I guess."
"Family company?" Allison set down her glass. "May I ask—what exactly do you do?"
Sebastian paused, then gave a wry smile. "Hall Group. My father founded it."
Allison's breath caught ever so slightly.
Hall Group.
Of course she had heard of it—one of New York's most influential real estate and art investment firms, with ownership over several theaters and galleries, and a major sponsor of a few key wings in the Metropolitan Museum. The name "Hall" was often whispered in gossip columns as one of the city's most eligible heirs.
"You're… that Hall?" Her tone was composed, but her eyes betrayed the surprise.
"Mm." He swirled his wine slowly, as if speaking of someone else. "I usually don't mention that on a first meeting. It tends to ruin the mood."
"Then why tell me now?"
He looked at her. "Because you didn't ask."
Allison paused, then let out a small laugh, her head tilted down.
"So you weren't unwilling to say it—you were just waiting to see if I'd show my ambition."
"Not ambition," he said softly, his voice steady, "just whether it would change the way you looked at me."
She raised her eyes to his, leaning in slightly. Her smile held a glint of something sharp. "So would you rather I pull away—or be more intrigued?"
"I hope you're interested in me because we connect when we talk, not because I've signed a few contracts."
Silence fell between them, quiet but not uncomfortable.
They resumed their dinner, drifting from music to childhood memories, from picture books to the pressure of parental expectations. Allison no longer hid her deep empathy for the struggle between art and reality. And Sebastian didn't shy away from admitting he used to sketch during board meetings—just to preserve a corner of his soul untouched by corporate greed.
Late into the night, they were the last ones left in the restaurant. The owner's wife came by to ask if they'd like dessert. Sebastian politely declined, then stood and helped Allison into her coat.
"Thank you for tonight," she said at the door, her tone lighter now, as if something inside her had quietly shifted.
"I should be the one thanking you." He glanced back at the little round table, his eyes soft. "It's been a long time since I've had such an effortless conversation."
The wind brushed past them. The street was still. Car headlights flicked on behind them, casting their overlapping shadows on the sidewalk.
Allison looked at him. "Mr. Hall."
He met her gaze. "Hm?"
"I don't care how many galleries your family owns. But I care about every word you said tonight."
Sebastian froze for a second, then smiled—a real smile, reaching all the way to his eyes.