For a fleeting, dangerous moment, anger surged—sharp and reckless.
I imagined it too clearly: the plates crashing against the table, porcelain shattering, food scattering across linen and glass.
Or worse—walking straight into that dinning room and overturning everything, reducing their perfect little dinner to ruin.
The urge burned hot.
Immediate. Tempting.
But I didn’t move.
I held it in.
Not because I couldn’t act—but because I chose not to.
Ciro’s words lingered at the edge of my mind, cutting through the storm just enough to keep me anchored.
I tightened my grip on the tray, holding on to something else instead.
The anger. The humiliation.
I carried both with me as I turned and stepped out of the kitchen.
The noise behind me faded, replaced by the quieter, heavier stillness of the corridor.
My steps were measured, the tray steady despite everything coiling beneath my skin.
Then the dining room came into view.
Warm light pooled softly across polished surfaces, every detail curated to create something that felt less like a room and more like a carefully constructed scene.
At the center stood a long ebony table, set for two—not across from each other, but side by side, close enough to suggest intimacy.
White linen lay smooth and unbroken beneath gold-rimmed china.
A low arrangement of white gardenias and pale roses stretched across the center, their scent subtle, almost intimate, blending seamlessly into the atmosphere.
Vincenzo wasn’t seated at the head of the table.
Not positioned at a distance that suggested authority or detachment.
He sat directly across from her.
Their chairs were drawn close—close enough that the space between them felt deliberate.
Beneath the fall of the tablecloth, their knees nearly touched.
It didn’t look like a dinner arranged out of obligation.
It looked like something else entirely.
Something personal.
Not a man and his wife.
Not a man and a duty.
Just him and her.
