Chapter 11 #2
“You hate menus that don’t have at least one word in English,” she added. “Don’t pretend you came here for the amuse-bouche.”
Her tone wasn’t mocking. It was something colder. Like she was building a wall again and wanted me to see it happening in real time.
Her gaze swept the table, the space behind me, then landed back on me with a slightly raised brow.
“Are you here alone?” she asked.
The implication wasn’t subtle.
This place was known for its exclusivity. Private booths, curated wine pairings, views of the skyline so elite they made headlines. It was where heirs brought their dynasty girls. Of course she’d think I brought someone.
But I hadn’t.
I hadn’t touched another woman since her. I hadn’t even looked at another woman. Because no one fucking compared.
And I wasn’t built for substitutes.
Only her.
I told her once that our love was final. Luca and I already had sworn to her. The vow mightn’t be public or tattooed. But it was final, for us.
“No,” I said.
Her eyes flicked over my face like she was testing that answer, looking to see if I was lying.
I wasn’t.
Because the truth was, I’d been fucking my hand for three years, imagining her mouth. The way she begged, her legs shaking, her eyes glossy, the way she whispered daddy when she came.
And I was already building a new image now.
How she looked tonight. Her lips were slightly pinker than usual, like she’d bitten them. The way the dress clung in all the places I used to hold.
I was going to take this image home. To the penthouse. To the shower.
Because it was all I had. And it was enough to ruin me.
“Did you eat?” I asked, breaking the silence as I nodded toward her untouched plate.
“No,”
“So they ordered for you,”
Her head tilted slightly. “What?”
“You didn’t pick that dish.” I nodded toward it again. “You hate bouillabaisse. ”
Her eyes went sharp again. And I fucking knew I was right.
She hadn’t picked the meal. Someone else had ordered it for her. Probably one of the heirs she’d been seated with before I had them removed. Polished dynasty boy who thought he’d win her with a seafood stew and a last name worth hyphenating.
She didn’t answer.
So I added, “You used to say it smelled like a dying aquarium.”
She reached for her wine glass. “People change.”
There it was.
The wall, rebuilt.
The temperature dropped.
And I watched her retreat into the version of herself they’d trained. The girl who could survive dynasty rooms by pretending not to feel anything at all.
“I think you should go,” she said softly.
Not cruel. Just… measured. Like she’d rehearsed it in her head before saying it out loud.
She watched me, waiting to see if I’d obey. If I’d finally do the polite thing.
I leaned back in my chair instead. Hooked my arm over the backrest. Let my legs spread just a little wider beneath the table—casual, like I owned the fucking place. Technically we did, we owned the building and if she liked eating here, I’d make sure we own the restaurant.
“I’ve heard that before,” I said.
I wasn’t going any where. Because if five minutes was all I could have, I’d take every second like it was oxygen.
“Why now, Bastion?” she asked, her grip tightened on the glass. “It’s been three years.”
“Three years, two months, and fourteen days,” I said .
She nodded. Slowly. “That’s a long time to leave a woman on read.”
Fuck.
It wasn’t just the words—it was the way she said them. The quiet strain in her voice. She didn’t meet my eyes when she said it. But I heard the truth even if she wouldn’t look at me.
That it had hurt.
That I had hurt her.
And she wasn’t asking for an explanation.
She reached for her drink again and finished it in a single sip. I watched her fingers trace the empty glass. The slight tremor in them
“I’m sorry.”
That word meant nothing compared to hurt I felt. How much it hurt being away from her.
She stared at the empty glass. “And I love sea urchin soufflé now.”
My eyes dropped to the untouched plate in front of her.
“The lies we tell,” she murmured, “just to make other people comfortable.”
And fuck—I felt that.
She wasn’t talking about the soufflé.
She was talking about us.
About all the years of silence. Every message we left unanswered. The calls she made that were never answered. She was right to throw it back in my face.
I didn’t speak, not because I didn’t have the words—but because anything I said would just be another lie.
But one day—one day—she’d know.
One day, I’d get to show her.
Every deal, every empire, every fucking line of blood spilled since she left—it was always for her. To make room for her, clear a path no one could block again .
But tonight wasn’t that night.
So I leaned back. Loosened my grip on the edge of the table. Forced myself to stay silent, one more time. Because she didn’t need an apology.
She needed proof.
And I hadn’t earned the right to give it.
“Well. As I told Luca. It’s all in the past.” She sighed, and brushed us off.
With the kind of poise trained into girls who weren’t allowed to break. Not even when their hearts were shattered by boys who disappeared without warning.
She looked away, and then smoothed a hand over her dress and asked, “Do you think they’ll serve dessert?”
It wasn’t a real question.
It was dynasty small talk. A graceful deflection. And still, it gutted me.
Because that was our good girl—still being polite. Still offering conversation. Even to the man who broke her heart and never gave her the goddamn closure she deserved.
I nodded. “Probably something with a French name you’ll pretend to like.”
Her lips twitched. But it didn’t touch her eyes.
“I should let you get back to it,” I said, standing slowly. “Enjoy your dinner.”
Her eyes followed me. I leaned down. Pressed my lips to her cheek. Slower than I should’ve. Closer than I was allowed. Fuck the rules.
“Have a good night, Emilia.”
My wife.
My love.
Our legacy.
I leaned in, kissed her cheek. I stayed close, my lips still hovering near her cheek .
“Happy birthday, baby,” I whispered, low. So quiet it wasn’t meant for the room. Just her.
And then I pulled back.
Left her sitting there with perfect posture and a full room of wolves that didn’t even know they’d just been warned.
I walked out.
Everything I’d been bleeding through this week, it all slipped back into focus.
I hadn’t come here to win.
I came to remember.
To see her. To feel the pulse of what we built this for. And I’d gotten exactly what I needed.
I stepped into the alley behind the restaurant, lit a cigarette my hands no longer shaking with rage.
Because one day soon, I wouldn’t be saying good night to my wife.
I’d be climbing into bed with her. We’d be fucking her to sleep. Kissing the back of her neck. Holding her between us until she couldn’t remember what it was like to sleep alone.
And she’d be curled between me and Luca, wrecked and worshipped, exactly where she belonged
Between us.
Ours.
But that wouldn’t happen, if we didn’t own this city.
I took one final drag, exhaled, and grabbed my phone.
I messaged her security. Told them to create an excuse, take her home. Our girl was getting a headache she needed sleep. Not to keep entertaining those fuckers, who I had every intention of putting in the ground if they got any closer.
Then I called Rome back, stepped into traffic like I owned the pavement, and rejoined the war that never stopped.
But this time ?
I was refueled.
And now reminded exactly why I planned to burn the world down just to put her back in our bed.