And something inside me tightened at the sight, a quiet twist that settled deep and refused to loosen.
I approached the table slowly, every step measured, every breath controlled, forcing the weight in my chest to stay contained, buried beneath composure.
When I reached them, I lowered the tray onto the table with steady hands.
I lifted the first plate and placed it before him, aligning it perfectly, as though precision alone could anchor me.
Then I took the second and set it before her with the same care.
My gaze remained fixed downward, tracing the subtle weave of the tablecloth, focusing on texture, pattern—anything that would keep me from looking at their faces.
I didn’t want to see him.
Didn’t want to read whatever might be in his expression.
And I refused to look at her.
I turned, intending to leave.
Because that was what this required of me.
To serve.
To step back.
To disappear without making a sound.
But a voice stopped me before I could take a second step.
“Elena...”
It was soft. Fragile in a way that carried further than it should have.
The sound of it struck harder than anything else that evening.
I froze.
Every muscle in my body locked in place, my jaw tightening until it ached.
For a moment, I didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t allow myself even the smallest reaction.
Then, slowly, I turned back.
Violet sat exactly as she had before—poised, composed, every inch of her arranged with quiet care.
The candlelight softened the edges of her pale skin, though it did nothing to hide the faint fragility beneath it.
Her dark hair fell over one shoulder in controlled waves, and the cream silk of her dress draped around her like something deliberately chosen to emphasize softness, to suggest delicacy.
She looked like something meant to be protected.
Something meant to be handled carefully.
Something that did not belong in a world like this.
And yet she was here. Sitting across from him.
“I know you have every right to be angry,” she said, her voice calm, each word placed with intention.
