Villainess Marked For Her Alpha Chapter 51: Soft Music

Hellen’s eyes flashed subtle steel—a predator’s warning glare flicked toward the paparazzi swarm, barely perceptible under her blonde ponytail’s shadow, silencing the boldest lenses with sheer alpha nace.

Caras lowered hesitantly, shouts faltering as valets shoved ropes wider; she kept the edge hidden from Emily, tucked safe against her side—if her charge had glimpsed that feral glint, it might’ve chilled her blood.

They breached the restaurant’s gilded doors at last, heavy mahogany swinging shut on the chaos, crystal chandeliers blooming warm overhead.

Hellen finally loosened her iron hold, Emily gasping rosy-cheeked, face flushed deep crimson from the crush—breath stolen by plush breasts pressed too long, the blonde woman’s scent clinging thick.

"What was that?" Emily wheezed, fanning herself with a manicured hand, floral maxi settling rumpled, raven chignon askew from the frenzy.

Hellen shrugged casual, guiding her deeper into the opulent dining room—velvet booths glowing under candle flicker, linen-draped tables murmuring elite chatter, ocean views framing silvered waves beyond arched windows. "They don’t care about privacy. Sharks for clicks."

"But this hasn’t ever happened to ," Emily protested, erald eyes wide, pulse still hamring visible at her throat. It was completely new for her. Was this how celebrities lived their life? Wow, she had to respect Lily a bit now.

"Get acquainted." Hellen scanned the room predator-quick—eyes lingering on their table, whispers rippling from nearby booths. "A lot of people are staring now. Helly Paws is about to launch, and Herlos is going to co back. So, yes. They will observe us."

"If that’s the case, they don’t have real work," Emily huffed, chin lifting defiant despite the blush.

Hellen shook her head faint-amused, ponytail swaying as she approached the sleek marble reception desk, hostess in black silk poised like royalty. "Two seats. Reservation under Hellen Jacksen."

He tapped his tablet swift, LED screen glowing confirmation. "Right this way." A crisp nod, gesturing them through hushed elegance—past caviar carts and somlier whispers—to a pri corner booth upholstered sapphire velvet, candlelit centrepiece flickering gold.

"A waiter will attend shortly," he murmured, vanishing smooth.

Before Emily could claim her side, Hellen pulled the chair gallant—high-backed velvet gliding silent. "My lady, sit here."

"Why’re you showing off here?!" Emily hissed low, cheeks reigniting as heads turned subtle—diners’ eyes curious on the co-owners’ drama. "People might look at us!" But she sank graceful anyway, maxi pooling elegant around her.

"You said these words, but I am sure that you like doing this for you, right?"

"I don’t like them at all."

Hellen slid into the opposite seat with fluid grace, navy blazer unbuttoned casual to reveal the crisp white silk beneath, unfolding her velvet-bound nu like a peace offering across the sapphire booth.

Candlelight flickered gold across her sharp cheekbones, blonde ponytail draping loose over one shoulder. Monts later, a waiter in pristine black tails materialized soundless—slender pad poised, accent lilting French velvet.

"Ladies, the specials tonight—seared foie gras with fig reduction and brioche toast, lobster thermidor bubbling under golden gratin crust, or wagyu tartare hand-cut tableside with quail egg yolk. Pair with the ’98 Bordeaux?"

Emily scanned the embossed pages quick, stomach rumbling traitor loud amid the elite hum, floral maxi pooling elegant around her thighs. "The lobster thermidor—and that heirloom tomato gazpacho to start, chilled with basil oil." Thanks to so of the mories of her predecessor, she knew what to order.

Hellen echoed seamless, eyes crinkling faint. "Wagyu tartare for . Bottle of the Bordeaux. Cheers to apologies."

"You are still at that? I won’t apologize you at all."

"Are you sure?"

"I am sure, Hellen. More than hundred percent."

Their glasses clinked crystal-clear as orders whisked away on the waiter’s tray, deep red wine swirling ruby in balloon stems, candlelight dancing soft shadows across their faces amid the dining room’s murmured luxury.

"Do you want to add sothing more?" Hellen asked, sipping slow, gaze warm over the rim.

The waiter looked at Emily expectantly. "Mam, do you want anything else?"

"No," Emily shook raven chignon, cheeks still pink from the paparazzi crush. "But a dessert will work later—surprise us with the chocolate soufflé."

The waiter nodded crisp and vanished into the shadows.

Then suddenly, arched doorways parted velvet—and a string quartet glided in, four figures in polished black dresses and tuxedos, instrunts gleaming under chandeliers—violins shimring rosewood, cello curving deep mahogany.

They settled intimate near the booth, bows drawing first notes—a lush violin lody weaving Strauss waltzes with modern jazz undertones, notes floating airy like smoke, cello’s low purr thrumming the air velvet.

"Did you do this?" Emily gasped, huge smile blooming radiant across full lips, erald eyes sparkling wide, leaning forward elbows on linen—floral maxi shimring candle-gold.

"Yes," Hellen admitted soft, smirk tugging scarred lip, wine glass cradling loose. "I thought you’d like it. Private serenade—your night, your music."

The violins swelled romantic, quartet’s harmony wrapping their booth like a secret, diners glancing envious as soufflé promise waited in the wings.

"You know what? I accept your apology."

"I knew it."

"Don’t look so smug," Emily teased, her erald eyes dancing with mock accusation as she glanced around the sapphire booth, violin notes weaving languid through the chandelier glow.

"I am not that smug. But I deserve to be smug, don’t I?"

Nearby diners shot envious glances—the power couple in the corner booth with private quartet, wine ruby-dark, floral maxi and navy blazer drawing every whisper.

Emily whispered, "Your ’apology’ is turning the whole room green. You sure this was the right move?"

Hellen’s gaze crinkled wicked, blonde ponytail swaying as she leaned back, wine glass cradling loose. "If it makes them jealous, I did it perfect." She turned fluid toward the quartet mid-phrase, voice carrying warm command over cello purr.

"Oh, don’t tell you did this knowingly."

"I did it for you, Emily. The people around us don’t exist for ."

"?"

"Softer, please—this lody’s building too bold. The one over there," her gaze flicked tender to Emily, thumb grazing the linen tablecloth near her hand, "likes her dinner music gentle, like moonlight on waves."

The violinist nodded subtle, bow easing feather-light—notes lting to Strauss sighs laced jazz whisper, strings humming intimate now, wrapping their booth in velvet hush.

Emily’s cheeks ward deeper, maxi fluttering as she shifted, full lips parting grin. "Show-off. You are really trying to show-off too much today," she murmured, but leaned closer, quartet’s softness cradling them like a secret amid jealous eyes.

"Am I?"

"How did you know that I like my music to be soft when I am eating?"

"At dinner, you like soft music. But at other tis, any type of music will work for you."

"Wow, you know too much about ."