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Chapter 129 – A Private Dinner
🕑 Added 2025-08-21 16:36:11 +0000 UTC
A sharp beep-beep-beep chirped from the slim watch on Audrey Hepburn’s wrist. One of the metal links in the band lit up faintly.
She brushed her fingers across it, silencing the alert, then rose gracefully and made her way toward the restaurant’s entrance.
The pageboy stationed at the door stepped inside just in time, holding the glass door open before it could swing shut. “Your car has arrived, ma’am,” he said with a polite bow.
“Thank you.” Audrey slipped him a tip with practiced ease before stepping outside.
Waiting by the car, Henry was already holding the rear door open, one hand lifted instinctively to shield her head from an accidental bump. Smooth, discreet—just the way a proper assistant should be.
Tonight, he was driving a rented Volvo, headed for a French restaurant Audrey had reserved days earlier.
The subtle watchband alert had been Henry’s invention. Nothing groundbreaking—just a transmitter and receiver rigged to buzz discreetly. He’d tried Bluetooth earpieces before, but the range was too short and the setup too conspicuous. Sometimes a simple nudge was better than a conversation.
When Henry was ready with the car, he’d ping her. When Audrey needed him, she could summon him the same way. To her, it was just a convenient little gadget. To anyone with an engineer’s eye, though, shrinking the tech down to fit inside a slim strip of metal on a bracelet was… more than a casual feat.
Henry never minded leaning on his Kryptonian precision to whip up useful toys. As long as he didn’t flaunt tech centuries ahead of its time, nobody noticed—or cared.
“Henry,” Audrey said suddenly from the back seat.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Once you hand the car to the valet, join us for dinner.”
Henry blinked. “Dinner? Ma’am, isn’t tonight supposed to be a private catch-up with a friend?”
He knew exactly who that friend was: Hubert de Givenchy, the legendary designer, flown in from Paris just to see her.
Audrey arched an elegant brow. “Didn’t I tell you to book a table for three?”
Henry hesitated. “Yes… but I assumed the third was one of Monsieur Givenchy’s guests.”
“No,” she said with a playful little smile. “The third seat is for you. And don’t bother protesting. You’ve got an appetite, and the chef here makes an oxtail soup that will ruin you for all others. I want to see your face when you taste it.”
“Dinner’s on me,” she added, eyes twinkling. “So relax—I won’t dock your pay.”
Henry gave a wry smile. “Thanks, boss.” He knew better than to argue. Audrey Hepburn’s “threats” about deducting wages were just her way of teasing. She’d always been generous—his food and lodgings matched hers whenever possible.
Outside, the streets of New York were slick with rain, puddles reflecting neon and cab headlights. Umbrellas bobbed along the crowded sidewalks. People hurried through the damp air, shoes splashing against wet pavement.
Audrey gazed out the window. This city’s relentless pace had never been her favorite—but nothing could dim the warmth of seeing an old friend again.
Hubert de Givenchy, once the brilliant founder of his own fashion house, was now creative director under the LVMH empire. Despite his packed schedule, he had carved out time to cross the Atlantic, to sit with Audrey after her harrowing brush with danger in Africa.
When they arrived, Henry parked, offered Audrey his hand as she stepped down, and passed the Volvo to the valet. Together, they entered the restaurant—a refined French establishment where a table could only be secured through careful reservation.
“Bonsoir, madame,” the manager greeted warmly, already waiting at the entrance. “Monsieur de Givenchy is inside. Please, allow me to show you to your table.”
Henry had arranged everything ahead of time, giving the manager only the essential details. The staff were trained to protect their clients’ privacy—no loose lips to the paparazzi, no gawking. In a place like this, celebrities weren’t exhibits in a zoo; they were guests.
Inside, the restaurant was bright and airy, elegant without suffocating its patrons. No gimmicky moody shadows or stifling silence—just a place where people could eat, drink, and talk without fuss.
As soon as they crossed the threshold, a tall, silver-haired gentleman rose from his seat with unmistakable grace.
“Givenchy,” Audrey said warmly.
“Ma chère Audrey.”
They embraced with European ease, a quick kiss to each cheek, before Givenchy’s eyes flicked curiously toward Henry.
“And who is this young man?” he asked kindly.
Audrey flashed a mischievous grin. “This is my new assistant, Henry Brown. He’s a remarkable young man—I simply had to introduce him to you.”
Henry felt a flicker of unease. Being presented to one of fashion’s giants was not part of his plan for a quiet evening. Still, he extended his hand with polite confidence.
“Henry Brown, sir. An honor to finally meet you.”
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