Chapter 7
A TABLE FOR TWO
For everything we could have been
Della
The restaurant feels like a postcard—small, warm, draped in soft golden light. Faded murals of the Italian countryside cover the walls, and the tables are dressed in red-and-white checkered cloths, as if we’ve been transported straight to Rome.
Adriana is clearly delighted, her eyes bright as she leans back in her chair, laughing at something the young waiter says in a thick Italian accent. He’s charming, a little too eager, but she’s loving every second of it.
“I swear, everything here smells like heaven,” she sighs dramatically, fanning herself with the menu. “And the waiter isn’t bad either.”
Greg chuckles, his tone relaxed as he flips through the wine list.
“Watch out, Adriana,” he says with a grin. “Their pasta’s famous for being hot enough to burn.”
Adriana laughs harder, clearly enjoying herself.
I smile politely, though I barely notice the scene around me.
Greg’s gaze lingers on me for a second—steady, curious—but I keep my expression composed, my focus on the basket of warm bread in front of us. I’m too practiced at ignoring looks like his.
I reach for my glass, still half-listening to Adriana’s cheerful chatter—then my eyes catch on the entrance.
And my heart stops.
Dorian.
Tall, sharp in his black suit, with that unmistakable presence that seems to claim every space he enters. His gaze sweeps the room—focused, unwavering.
I freeze for half a second, breath caught in my throat, unable to look away from him. My heart slams hard against my ribs, too loud, too fast.
He’s not here by accident.
And just like that, anger rises—hot, sharp, immediate.
Not just because he’s here, clearly looking for me.
But because I react like this.
God, I hate it.
Hate how my pulse spikes the second I see him—those familiar eyes, that quiet intensity, that impossible pull.
Greg notices the shift in my face, the flicker of tension.
“Everything okay?” he asks casually—but I can hear the curiosity there, see the way his gaze follows mine.
“Yeah. Sure” I say forcing myself to look away, shoving down the rush of emotion clawing at my chest.
But it’s too late.
Dorian’s eyes lock with mine—direct, unflinching, unblinking, cutting straight through me.
He doesn’t hesitate. He strides toward our table, every step slow, deliberate.
Adriana’s still oblivious, too caught up in her playful banter with the waiter.
But something tells me this won’t be just a polite hello.
* * *
Dorian
I move toward their table, cutting across the room with quiet purpose. No rush. No hesitation. Just the steady pull of inevitability.
I watch Della’s eyes snap toward me, wide for a split second before she shifts her expression back into ice.
I’m aware of every glance I draw, every curious look that follows me through the room.
But my focus never strays from her.
She’s seated at a corner table, half-turned toward the others, a faint, polite smile on her lips as she listens to the conversation—but her body is tense, her posture too still.
She looks stunning, even in the soft afternoon light.
As I near, I let my gaze sweep over her colleagues first—Greg Stanton, sharp suit, polished charm, head of European Strategy at Silverline Global Media. A man known for aggressive expansion and high-profile campaigns.
He’s seated next to Della—just a little too close. Something primal flickers beneath the surface.
I clock the tilt of his body toward her, the way his arm rests casually behind her chair, and make a quiet note of it. I don’t interrupt. Not yet. But the part of me that protects what’s mine is wide awake. Watching. Calculating.
Next to him, must be Adriana. Della’s colleague from back home.
I stop just beside their table, the weight of my presence impossible to ignore now.
I offer a polite nod to the table, though my attention barely strays from her.
“Good afternoon,” I say, my voice calm but with just enough edge to cut the conversation short.
Greg stands, smooth but cautious, like a man aware the temperature has changed, his instincts kicking in.
“Dorian Marshall,” I introduce myself, extending my hand with deliberate ease. “Marshall Enterprises.”
He shakes it—firm, but watchful. A man used to being the most powerful person in the room… until now.
“Greg Stanton, Silverline Global Media.”
Then recognition flashes in his eyes—curiosity sharpening.
“Marshall Enterprises. You reopened Excalibur last year, isn’t it?” He lets the question hang, just enough weight in it to show he’s impressed.
I allow the faintest curve of my lips—measured, knowing.
Greg lets out a short breath, smiling slightly.
“We attended the event. Spectacular work. I’ve been meaning to connect. Your hospitality model could align well with some of our European initiatives.”
“That’s right,” I say. “Glad to hear it left an impression.”
He gestures to the empty chair beside him, already seeing angles.
“I’d love to talk sometime,” he offers, his tone brightening. “We’ve been expanding partnerships—there might be room for something interesting.”
I nod politely, though my eyes never leave Della.
She hasn’t said a word.
But I see it—the flicker in her gaze. Surprise. Unease. Good.
I keep my tone even as I finally glance back to Greg.
“Perhaps another time,” I reply smoothly, before turning my gaze to her, letting it linger like a claim.
“For now, I was hoping to speak with Miss Toma. Privately.”
The words are wrapped in courtesy, but the air between us says the truth: this isn’t a request.
Greg glances at her, passing the decision to her—but we all know how this will play out.
Della’s answer comes cool, clipped, but steady.
“Of course.”
She stands, graceful and controlled, but I don’t miss the way her hands tighten for a brief second, how her chin lifts just slightly too high.
I step back, gesturing toward the empty table in the corner—more private, away from their curious stares.
She walks toward it without looking at me, her posture perfect, her steps even—but I can feel the heat between us already simmering.
And so can she.
Because this isn’t about politeness.
It’s about unfinished business.
* * *
I sit across from her, letting the silence stretch for a moment, just watching her.
She keeps her gaze fixed on the table, her posture stiff but composed, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of her glass—a habit I remember too well.
She’s shielding herself. Guarding every word, every breath.
But I’m done letting her hide.
I lean forward, my voice low, steady.
“You didn’t even flinch when you saw me walk in,” I murmur, studying her face.
Her eyes finally meet mine—cool, distant, unreadable—but there’s a flicker there. She lifts her chin slightly, unbothered on the surface, but I can see the sharpness behind her gaze.
“So, you own Excalibur now?” she asks, her tone light, almost mocking.
I allow a small smile, but there’s no humor in it.
“I do.” My voice stays calm, but something raw slips through. “It reminded me of you. Dancing. Laughing. Living every second like it was your last.”
I hold her gaze, letting the words sink in before I add, softer, almost like a confession— “Loving me.”
For a split second, her composure wavers—barely—but enough for me to see she didn’t expect that.
Still, she doesn’t lower her guard.
“Things of the past, Dorian,” she replies, her voice quiet, touched by something that sounds almost like sadness. “I’m not that girl anymore.”
My chest tightens.
“Then who are you now, Della?”
Her lips press into a flat line.
“I don’t owe you that answer,” she says, her voice steady, detached. “I don’t owe you anything.”
I exhale slowly, fighting to keep my voice even.
“You owe me the truth.”
She lets out a soft, bitter laugh—cold and sharp enough to cut.
“The truth?” she echoes. Then, her gaze hardens, her words slicing clean.
“You mean the version you convinced yourself of five years ago?”
That stings—but I don’t look away.
“You left,” I remind her, my voice coming out rough, like gravel dragged across steel.
“Yes. We both agreed on that. You drove me to the airport, remember?”
Her reply is sharp, her eyes flashing like arrows loosed straight at my chest—cutting, defiant.
But beneath the edge, a tremor hides.
“My visa was expiring. I had to finish my studies back home. My mom was… sick.”
Her voice falters on the last word, softening, the heat bleeding out of it as it catches in her throat. The light in her eyes wavers, pain surfacing beneath the armor.
I still, something cold sinking inside me.
“How is your mom?” I ask, softer this time, something real breaking through.
She doesn’t flinch.
“She died.” The words land heavy, brutal, final. “Cancer.”
My stomach twists. It knocks the air right out of me.
“Della, I—I’m sorry. I know how much she meant to you. I didn’t know…”
Her eyes burn as she cuts me off.
“Of course you didn’t,” she snaps, her voice bitter. “How could you? You weren’t there.”
I rake my hands through my hair, my voice slipping into something almost desperate.
“I tried—God, I tried. You didn’t answer my calls, Della.”
Her laugh is hollow, sharp.
“And you?” she says slowly, her gaze like ice, “You didn’t come for me.”
I take the hit. But I’m not done. I lean in, locking eyes with her.
“Tell me why,” I press, my voice low but unwavering. “Why didn’t you answer? Why did you disappear?”
For a second, something cracks in her expression—a flash of something dark and old.
She looks away, her voice clipped, brittle.
“I had my reasons.”
I don’t back down.
“I need to hear them, Della.” My voice drops further, rough and sharp. “I need to know what happened. Why you never called.”
She straightens, her mask slipping just enough to reveal the fire beneath.
“Oh, but I did.” Her words drop like a stone.
I blink, stunned.
She holds my gaze, her voice cold and cutting—but there’s something else underneath. Something sharp. Wounded.
“You were just too… distracted to remember.”