Ference hesitated for the briefest moment. “He’s in a business meeting. A partner called him last minute.”
An uncomfortable pull spread through my chest. “I see,” I said, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat, masking the turmoil. “Thank you, Ference.”
I closed the door softly and headed for the shower. Today I would go in with my head high. Today I would show him I didn’t care, no matter how false that felt inside.
I chose a playsuit with shorts and a matching vest. My makeup was subtle, my hair left loose. I knew my look carried a dangerous pull; every detail adjusted as if I were arming myself. I stood at the mirror longer than I should have — fixing, smoothing, perfecting — as though beauty could be a shield.
When I finally walked into the restaurant, nothing happened. He didn’t even look up. I didn’t know what I had expected, but his disinterest hit me like a blow. I stopped mid-step — too long — my hands clenching at the seam of my playsuit. It was as if an invisible wall had stopped me, one I’d slammed into. Time slowed as I searched his face for any flicker of reaction. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I was pathetic. Why doesn’t he see me? The question drilled into my head, over and over, a painful echo I couldn’t shake. Why do I even try? Why do I care so much about someone who can’t lift his head to look at me?
The answer was terrible and simple. Because I wanted him to. Because I wanted to be seen, wanted to be wanted, so that all this effort, all this restless hunger, hadn’t been for nothing. Now I felt naked and ridiculous, stripped down to something raw and laughable. The silence pressed in on me, deafening. My chest burned with the slow, pounding weight of rejection — not the kind that shatters all at once, but the kind that seeps under your skin, eats at you, and stays.
Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I never had been, for anyone. The thought rose so easily it might as well have been carved into me. I should have turned and walked away. Isn’t that what a confident woman would do? Isn’t that strength? But my feet refused. I shrank smaller with every second of his silence, every heartbeat that screamed how invisible I was to him. So this is what it felt like — to be invisible to someone.
I forced myself forward and sat across from him. Damian was still bent over his phone, so focused it was as if I didn’t exist.
“Can I get you something to drink?” the waitress asked, appearing beside the table as if out of nowhere. She laid a place setting in front of me, set down the glasses with practiced ease, and lifted her notepad.
“A coffee and water,” I said.
Finally, he looked up. He set his phone on the table, leaned back in his chair, and let his gaze move slowly across my face, then down over my outfit. A sly smile tugged at his mouth.
“Did you dress up, Daisy?”
His words sliced through me, and for a heartbeat I felt exposed, like a child caught stealing.
“Have a nice evening?” I asked, clipped.
“I can’t complain.”
My hand tightened around the fork, gripping it like a weapon.
He smiled again. “Planning to stab me with that?” His tone was maddeningly casual, confident — like a man who owned the world. “So, tell me, do you hate me now? Or are you just hurt?”
A tremor ripped through me, sharp and silent. I couldn’t hold it back. With a sudden scrape, I pushed my chair back, half rising, desperate to move, to escape.
But Damian was faster. He rose, stepped around the table, and clamped his hand around my arm with a cold precision more dangerous than pain.
“Where are you going?” His voice was quiet.
“Away from you,” I forced through my teeth. My throat burned as if I’d been screaming, though the words barely carried.
“You’re going to sit down. Now.”
“Let me go, Damian.”
His gaze was black glass—without depth, without light, without mercy. “Sit. Down.”
And something in his tone left me powerless. My knees obeyed before my mind caught up, my body falling back into the chair as if the command had gone straight into my bones.
The waitress returned then, her timing grotesque in its normalcy. “And what can I bring you to eat?” she asked brightly.
“Nothing.”
“The menu,” he said at once. “We’ll both have the menu.”
The waitress hesitated, her eyes flicking between us, then walked away.
