Page 53 of Eat Slay Love

Once again, all I could say was, “Oh.”

He leaned forward, and his voice was warm with mischief. “Will you let me take you there?”

My breath hitched. “Yeah.”

“Perfect.” His smirk deepened. “I’ll make sure to grab a bottle of Château d’Yquem—perfect for viewing art with.”

“So. . .we’re just going to go to The Met tonight, after hours?” I asked, half-laughing, half-in shock.

“Of course.” He winked. “I told you. I’m basically an international spy.”

I laughed, shaking my head. But excitement coiled through me, wrapping around my ribs and tightening in the best way.

And suddenly, I saw it. . .

The two of us, walking hand in hand through dimly lit hallways, glasses of expensive wine in our hands. The soft echo of our voices filling the vast empty museum, our laughter mingling with the silence, bouncing off marble and shadow.

Sometimes, his hand would be at the small of my back as we moved through halls of priceless exhibits.

It was intoxicating.

It was romantic.

And God… I never wanted to wake up from this dream.

The train slowed, pulling into a station carved from marble and gold, but I barely noticed.

I was too lost in him.

Our cars’ doors slid open.

Cosmo’s voice rang out through the speakers within our car. “This next course is all about transformation.”

The waitress entered our car, placing the dish before us.

I looked down—and my breath caught.

The plate was art.

A culinary masterpiece mirroring the metamorphosis of a butterfly.

At the base of the dish, a velvety swirl of dark truffle mousse represented the egg, rich and earthy, its texture impossibly smooth.

Resting just above it, a delicate arrangement of herbs and microgreens cradled a caterpillar—a tender roulade of lobster wrapped in a thin veil of saffron-infused pasta, its shape mimicking the gentle curve of a larva inching forward.

The buttery scent of the dish was intoxicating, promising indulgence with every bite.

Higher up, a perfectly crisped crostini—golden, airy, its surface glistening with the lightest brush of truffle oil—formed the chrysalis.

And at the very top, the butterfly—a breathtaking creation of spun sugar and edible gold.

Those wings shimmered.

Cosmo’s voice filled the space again. “Transformation is the heart of alchemy. The shedding of what was. The rebirth into something new. This dish is a tribute to that—to the cycles we move through, to the beauty of change.”

I swallowed hard, something about his words struck a chord deep within me.

Fabien picked up his fork. “Let’s see what transformation tastes like.”

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