“She’s ignoring every message, David,” I say, my voice flat, controlled—but the heat beneath it leaks through. “She’s here, walking around my city, acting like nothing happened and I’m supposed to sit back and do nothing?”
David steps fully into the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. He leans against the edge of my desk, arms crossed, his sharp gaze pinned on me.
“You honestly think this is the smart move?” he asks, his voice low but firm. “Having your assistant chase her down like some corporate errand?”
I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair.
“I need to talk to her,” I mutter. “I need to understand what happened when she left. Why she never answered the phone. Why she never called back.”
David raises an eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest.
“And chasing her down in broad daylight is the way?”
Before I can reply, my intercom buzzes again.
“She just left for lunch,” my assistant reports. “With her colleagues. They’re at Rossi Trattoria, the Italian place next to their office.”
I don’t hesitate.
I push back my chair and stand, buttoning my jacket with slow, deliberate precision.
David watches me, his brow lifting slightly, half-amused, half-concerned.
“So, you’re going through with this?” he asks, tone drier now, but with a flicker of warning underneath.
I pause at the door, but the words inside me won’t stay caged anymore.
“I thought I’d never see her again,” I admit, my voice tighter, heavier than I mean it to be. “I thought it was over—lost in the shadows of the past. That it didn’t matter anymore.”
I shake my head slightly, something bitter curling in my chest.
“But it does matter. It matters like hell. And it hurts.”
I stare down at my hands, curling them slowly into fists.
“Especially after what I saw at the club. Something happened, David. I could see it in her eyes. She’s not the same. And I need to know why.”
David watches me for a long, unreadable moment, then sighs.
“Just don’t make it worse,” he says, voice low but steady.
I give him a single nod, then step out, leaving the door swinging behind me.
This time, I won’t let her disappear.
Chapter 7
A TABLE FOR TWO
For everything we could have been
Della
The restaurant feels like a postcard—small, warm, draped in soft golden light. Faded murals of the Italian countryside cover the walls, and the tables are dressed in red-and-white checkered cloths, as if we’ve been transported straight to Rome.
Adriana is clearly delighted, her eyes bright as she leans back in her chair, laughing at something the young waiter says in a thick Italian accent. He’s charming, a little too eager, but she’s loving every second of it.
“I swear, everything here smells like heaven,” she sighs dramatically, fanning herself with the menu. “And the waiter isn’t bad either.”
