It’s pathetic. I know it’s pathetic. I don’t care.
By dinnertime the patience I’ve been forcing all day is gone. I just want her in front of me again, want the daggers in her eyes, want to feel that sharp spark of being hated and still wanted. I sit at the table and wait.
She might not come. Might stay locked in her room, refuse to face what happened. I pushed too far in the courtyard. Took something she wasn’t ready to give.
But she gave it anyway.
The clock ticks.
Eight o’clock passes.
Eight-oh-five.
Eight-ten.
Then she appears in the doorway, and my breath catches.
I never lose control like this. Never let anyone see me caught off guard.
But she’s wearing the dress I’ve imagined her wear a thousand times.
The green one with the low back. Silk the color of deep emeralds, shifting with each movement. I chose it because I knew it would make her eyes luminous. Knew it would turn her auburn hair to flame in candlelight.
She’s never worn something I selected voluntarily before. Never chose my offerings without being told she has to.
This is a choice. A statement.
She could have worn anything else. The gray dress. The cream sweater. Any of the practical items she gravitates toward when she’s asserting independence.
She chose mine.
Message received.
She stands in the doorway, watching me watch her. Chin lifted. Defiant despite red-rimmed eyes. Still beautiful. Still sharp.
Not broken.
Good.I don’t want broken. I want her fire. Her claws. Her fight.
I stand. Gesture to the chair beside me.
Not my lap. Not yet. Let her choose the distance tonight.
She crosses the room slowly. Every step deliberate. A woman walking into battle, not a prisoner being summoned.
She sits. Smooths the silk over her thighs.
Neither of us speaks.
I pour wine. Slide the glass toward her.
She takes it. Drinks it in one long swallow.
Still not looking at me directly.
I pour another.
She drinks that too.
