She holds my gaze, her voice cold and cutting—but there’s something else underneath. Something sharp. Wounded.
“You were just too… distracted to remember.”
Her words slam into me like a punch to the gut. For a second, I can't breathe.
I sit there, frozen, my mind racing—too many questions, too many gaps, too much I never knew.
Before I can speak, she stands—graceful, calm, but every move precise, controlled. Her storm hidden beneath a flawless facade.
She walks past me without a glance, heading straight for the door where her colleagues are gathering to leave.
I manage to push myself up, my voice low, almost a growl.
“This isn’t over, Della.”
She pauses, glancing over her shoulder, her face unreadable—but her eyes?
Her eyes are ice.
“I think it is, Dorian.” she says, her voice like steel.
And just like that, she’s gone.
* * *
Della
I step outside, the sharp spring air hitting my skin like a slap. The city feels louder now—too bright, too close. My pulse is still racing, my hands clenched tight around the strap of my bag as I walk away from Rossi Trattoria—away fromhim.
Greg and Adriana are laughing softly beside me, still caught up in the waiter’s jokes, unaware—or pretending not to notice—the storm I’m carrying inside.
I keep my face calm, my steps even, matching their pace as we head back toward the office.
But inside, I’m burning.
Every step feels heavier, my chest tight with everything I can’t say.
“Quite the unexpected guest,” Greg remarks lightly after a few minutes of walking. His tone is casual, but curiosity threads beneath it.
I glance at him, arching a brow, my voice even.
“Just someone I met during my academic year,” I reply smoothly, keeping my gaze ahead.
He hums, a note of skepticism in it.
“Well… notjustsomeone. Dorian Marshall—Chicago’s bachelor of the year.”
His smile is thin, but he lets it drop there, not pressing further.
Adriana, however, studies me more closely—her steps slowing just a little to fall in line with mine.
“You sure you’re, okay?” she asks softly, her voice quieter, more personal. “Was that… the dark angel from the club?”
Her words hit harder than I expect.
I force a small smile, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I’m fine,” I lie, keeping my voice light. “Just… old history.”
