4. Elena #3
The meal was excellent, handmade pasta with wild boar ragu, roasted branzino with fennel and blood orange, a panna cotta that dissolved on the tongue like sweetened clouds.
Dominic ordered with the confidence of someone who knew the menu intimately, who had brought other women here before me, who understood exactly what impression he wanted to make.
The knowledge should have bothered me. Instead, I found myself appreciating the calculation, the way he’d chosen this restaurant specifically to create an atmosphere of intimacy and sophistication.
He was seducing me with intention, and I was letting him.
Over dessert, he asked about my apartment, about how I’d ended up in Back Bay, about whether I liked living alone.
The questions felt innocuous, conversational, yet I noticed how he cataloged each answer, filing away information for future use.
Learning my patterns. Understanding my life.
The same thing Marcus did, except Dominic was doing it with my permission, with my participation, which somehow made it feel different even though the mechanics were identical.
“Do you live alone?” I asked, turning the interrogation back on him.
“I have a loft in the Seaport. Bought it three years ago when I signed my contract extension. It’s too big for one person, probably, but I like the space. I like being able to move without bumping into furniture or neighbors or anyone else’s expectations.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It is, sometimes.” He finished his wine, his gaze never leaving mine. “Less so lately.”
The implication was clear, presumptuous, exactly the kind of statement that should have made me bristle.
Instead, I felt heat rise in my cheeks, a flush that had nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with the way Dominic was looking at me, as though I were the only person in the restaurant, in the city, in his entire field of vision.
We left Oleana near ten, stepping out into the October night that had grown colder in our absence.
Dominic immediately shrugged out of his coat and draped it over my shoulders, the gesture chivalrous and possessive in equal measure.
The wool was warm, carrying his scent, that same expensive cologne layered over clean soap, and I pulled it closer around me, grateful for the warmth and disturbed by how much I liked wearing something of his.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said, not asking.
“It’s out of your way.”
“I don’t care.”
We walked through the North End’s narrow streets, past restaurants closing for the night and couples stumbling home from bars, past the Old North Church standing sentinel in the darkness.
Dominic kept up a steady stream of conversation, asking more questions, learning more details, building a comprehensive map of my life with the same strategic precision he probably applied to studying opposing teams.
When I mentioned my morning coffee routine, he asked which café.
When I mentioned my favorite walking route, he asked which streets.
When I mentioned the bookstore where I browsed on Sunday afternoons, he asked which section I preferred.
Each answer was noted, filed away, added to his growing database of Elena Voss.
I should have found it invasive. Instead, I found it intoxicating, this focused attention from someone who seemed genuinely interested in the minutiae of my existence.
Marcus’s surveillance was violation; Dominic’s curiosity felt like validation, proof that I was worth knowing, worth pursuing, worth the effort he was so clearly expending.
The rationalization was dangerous, and some part of me knew it.
We reached my building near eleven, the lobby visible through the glass doors, the night doorman reading something on his phone. Dominic stopped on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable in the streetlight’s amber glow.
“I had a good time tonight,” he said.
“So did I.”
“Can I see you tomorrow?”
The question was direct, unambiguous, leaving no room for misinterpretation.
I thought about Lucia’s warnings, about the similarities between Dominic’s intensity and Marcus’s obsession, about all the reasons this was a terrible idea.
I thought about the electric jolt I’d felt on the terrace, about the way Dominic had listened when I’d confessed my unhappiness, about the possibility that maybe this was what I needed.
“Yes,” I said. “Tomorrow.”
His smile was triumphant, possessive, the expression of someone who’d just won something valuable.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
For a moment, I thought he might kiss me, might close the distance and claim the intimacy he’d been building toward all evening.
Instead, he reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, the same gesture from last night, his fingers lingering against my cheek.
“Sleep well, Elena,” he said quietly. “I’ll text you in the morning.”
He stepped back, creating space between us, and I felt the loss of his proximity like a physical ache.
I watched him walk away, his figure disappearing into the October darkness, before I finally turned and went inside, my body still warm from his coat, my mind already replaying every moment of the evening.
The night doorman nodded as I passed. “Good evening, Ms. Voss.”
“Good evening, Marcus.”
The name was a cold shock, a reminder of the other man who tracked my movements, who knew my schedule, who thought he had the right to my attention.
I hurried to the elevator, suddenly desperate to be behind locked doors, to be safe in my apartment where I could process the evening without the weight of observation.
Upstairs, I hung Dominic’s coat carefully in my closet, changed into pajamas, and poured myself a glass of water. My phone buzzed with a text: Thank you for tonight. I meant what I said—I want to know you. All of you. Sleep well.
I stared at the message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard, trying to formulate a response that didn’t sound too eager or too distant. Finally, I typed: Thank you for dinner. It was lovely.
His response came immediately: You’re lovely. I’ll see you tomorrow.
I set the phone down and walked to the windows, looking out over the city that never quite slept.
Somewhere out there, Marcus was probably reviewing today’s photographs, adding them to his collection.
Somewhere out there, Dominic was probably planning tomorrow’s date, deciding how he would continue his pursuit.
I was caught between them, between violation and validation, between the attention I feared and the attention I craved.
The difference was supposed to be clear, one was wanted, one was not, yet standing at my window in the darkness, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the line between them was thinner than I wanted to believe.