He goes completely still. When he finally turns to face me, his expression is carefully neutral. "No."
The single word lands like a slap. I fight to keep my face blank, to not show how much that hurts. But I think he sees it anyway because regret flickers in his eyes. Or just acknowledgment of the wound he's inflicted.
"Come on." His voice is gruff. "I'll show you where you can sit."
He walks past me, careful not to touch me this time. I follow him out of the office and into the main dining room. The restaurant is empty this early except for us.
Lorenzo stops at a corner table with a view of the street. It's intimate, tucked away from the main floor. The kind of table couples request for anniversaries.
"Here." He pulls out the chair for me, ever the gentleman even when he's rejecting me. "The waiter will be with you shortly."
I look at the table set for two but it’s just me. The loneliness of it makes my throat tight. But I won't beg. Won't ask him again to stay. I've already shown too much, been too obvious about what I want.
"Thank you," I say quietly, sitting down.
He stands there for a moment, his hand still on the back of my chair. His fingers brush against my shoulder, so light I might have imagined it.
Then he's gone, walking away without another word.
I sit alone at the table, watching the street outside.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sophia
The restaurant starts filling up around me. Couples slide into booths, laughing over wine. A group of businessmen takes the large table near the window. The noise builds, life happening all around me.
I've never felt more alone.
My body weighs a thousand pounds. Every muscle aches from the tension of facing Francesco, from pretending I'm brave when I'm terrified, from wanting Lorenzo so badly it physically hurts. I prop my elbow on the table and rest my head in my hand, too exhausted to care about proper posture.
"Good evening, miss." A waiter appears beside me, young and eager with a genuine smile. "What can I get for you tonight?"
I look up at him. He's maybe twenty-five, with kind brown eyes. He's just doing his job, being polite to a customer. Nothing more, nothing less.
Normal.
"What does everyone love here?" I feel exhausted. "Just... bring me whatever that is."
His smile widens, and it's real. Just a waiter pleased to help a customer.
"The chicken marsala is our most popular dish. Can't go wrong with that."
"Perfect."
"And to drink?"
"Water's fine."
He nods and heads toward the kitchen. I watch him go, watch him stop at another table to check on their meal, watch him joke with a coworker near the bar. Everything about him screams normal, and suddenly I'm drowning in memories of when my life was like that.
Before the cancer.
God, I used to be so normal.
Marina and I would spend hours at coffee shops, complaining about professors and planning weekend trips we'd never take. We'd go to parties and flirt with guys whose biggest concern was passing their economics final. We'd stay up too late watching terrible reality shows and eating ice cream straight from the container.
Sure, there was always a bodyguard somewhere. But Tony was good at his job. Staying far enough away that I could pretend he wasn't there. He'd sit at a different table in restaurants, follow at a distance when Marina and I went shopping. Most of my friends never even knew he existed.
