“Of course.”
She stands, graceful and controlled, but I don’t miss the way her hands tighten for a brief second, how her chin lifts just slightly too high.
I step back, gesturing toward the empty table in the corner—more private, away from their curious stares.
She walks toward it without looking at me, her posture perfect, her steps even—but I can feel the heat between us already simmering.
And so can she.
Because this isn’t about politeness.
It’s about unfinished business.
* * *
I sit across from her, letting the silence stretch for a moment, just watching her.
She keeps her gaze fixed on the table, her posture stiff but composed, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of her glass—a habit I remember too well.
She’s shielding herself. Guarding every word, every breath.
But I’m done letting her hide.
I lean forward, my voice low, steady.
“You didn’t even flinch when you saw me walk in,” I murmur, studying her face.
Her eyes finally meet mine—cool, distant, unreadable—but there’s a flicker there. She lifts her chin slightly, unbothered on the surface, but I can see the sharpness behind her gaze.
“So, you own Excalibur now?” she asks, her tone light, almost mocking.
I allow a small smile, but there’s no humor in it.
“I do.” My voice stays calm, but something raw slips through. “It reminded me of you. Dancing. Laughing. Living every second like it was your last.”
I hold her gaze, letting the words sink in before I add, softer, almost like a confession— “Loving me.”
For a split second, her composure wavers—barely—but enough for me to see she didn’t expect that.
Still, she doesn’t lower her guard.
“Things of the past, Dorian,” she replies, her voice quiet, touched by something that sounds almost like sadness. “I’m not that girl anymore.”
My chest tightens.
“Then who are you now, Della?”
Her lips press into a flat line.
“I don’t owe you that answer,” she says, her voice steady, detached. “I don’t owe you anything.”
I exhale slowly, fighting to keep my voice even.
“You owe me the truth.”
She lets out a soft, bitter laugh—cold and sharp enough to cut.
“The truth?” she echoes. Then, her gaze hardens, her words slicing clean.
