Chapter 11: Dinner and Desperation

Time reveals the true shape of a person. Fine rain clung to his brows and lashes, giving him a gentle glow. He hadn’t changed much, just grown thinner.

His eyes were the same—sharp, thoughtful, with a hint of warmth. I wondered if he’d changed on the inside too.

"You hired a private chef today?"

Maybe there was something to celebrate, or someone important to meet.

His tone was casual, but I could hear the curiosity behind it. I shifted from foot to foot, unsure what to say.

I paused. "Did I crash your dinner plans?"

I forced myself to meet his eyes, bracing for disappointment.

He stopped in front of me, silent for a long time. When he finally looked at me, his expression was calm, unreadable.

The silence stretched, heavy and awkward. I waited, trying not to fidget.

"If you have something to say, come inside."

His voice was steady, giving nothing away. I nodded, grateful for the invitation.

Back in the spring-like warmth of the house, I only worried that my wet clothes would start to smell more as the temperature rose.

I tried to sit up straight, smoothing my hair. The room was filled with the scent of roast chicken and fresh herbs.

He pulled out a chair and sat at the head of the dining table. The butler had already decanted the wine. The servants withdrew, leaving us alone. The heavy, blustery night was shut out.

The chandelier cast soft light over the table, making everything feel intimate. I hesitated, unsure where to sit.

He held his knife and fork, not looking at me. "Go wash up and come back."

His tone was firm, almost commanding. I hesitated, but nodded.