19. Lena
Lena
I t’s been an incredible day at the shelter.
After Dominic left, deliveries started pouring in: food, supplies, bedding, toiletries.
We spent hours sorting and unpacking. Lexi ran out to grab school supplies and came back with a mountain of colored pencils and activity books.
Then she stayed with the kids so the residents could help us finish.
Valerie looked like she was on the verge of tears all day. Sometimes from heartbreak, sometimes from sheer joy. My only real regret is that my grandmother isn’t here to see it. Her house, full of life again.
By the time I got back to the hotel, I was already exhausted.
And Dominic wasn’t there. When I texted him, he replied, “ I’m out dealing with something.
Wait for me at the restaurant. I’ll find you”.
So I showered, slipped into a light dress, and put on the necklace he gave me to wear at the wedding party.
Then I headed downstairs to find a quiet table where I could wait for him.
I’ve been sitting for more than an hour when the Chef comes over. He gives me an apologetic smile, like he hates to interrupt. “The souffle’s ready. If we wait much longer, it’ll lose its magic. Should I bring it out?”
I nod. It’s almost ten, and I’m starving.
Especially after that glass of wine on an empty stomach.
A few minutes later, the souffle arrives: warm, golden, impossibly light.
A delicate crown of Gruyère and steam. I take a bite, slow and reverent.
It melts instantly, coating my tongue in velvet warmth, salty and perfect.
I close my eyes and take it all in for a second.
Around me, the restaurant hums with quiet conversations and the occasional clink of silverware and glass.
Soft lights flicker across the faces of strangers.
And I’m alone at the table. Still waiting.
I trail my fingers along the rim of the wine glass, eyes drifting to the empty seat across from me.
I’m waiting for Dominic. And tonight, that feels different.
I can’t stop thinking about the way he showed up today at my grandma's house. How he understood. He didn’t make a big deal out of it.
Didn’t act like he was saving anyone, just steady hands, clear questions, direct action.
He saw something that mattered to me and instantly made it matter to him too.
Not because I asked. Because I mattered.
He stood there and handled everything like it was already his responsibility.
Like my fight was his fight. And he did it all without stepping on my space.
Without needing recognition. Without the usual ‘ see-what-I-did ’ that most men can’t help but give off.
What really unsettles me is how close Dominic’s getting to parts of me I’ve fought hard to keep buried. And the truth is that terrifies me. There’s still something unresolved between us, and I can’t expect him to wait around forever.
I slide my plate aside and glance around for a waiter.
The chef comes back, drying his hands on a clean white towel.
He’s been quietly attentive, probably because I’m the owner’s wife.
I’m not really used to this kind of careful treatment.
It makes me feel a little exposed. I wish I could slip out of the spotlight.
“I think I’ll move to the bar,” I say with a small smile. “Maybe you could send dessert over?”
He studies me for a second, serious but kind, then nods. “I have something special. Mille-feuille. Madagascar vanilla cream, raspberry sauce.”
I thank him with a look and stand, the hem of my dress brushing against warm skin, tingling from the wine, the waiting, and everything I’m trying not to feel too much. The necklace from Dominic slides softly across my chest. A quiet, familiar touch that sparks a warm rush under my skin.
I leave the restaurant, head into the hotel bar, and spot Rob, the bartender, behind the counter. He brightens when he sees me and starts wiping down the bar in front of me like it suddenly needs his full attention.
“A glass of white, like always?” he asks.
I nod and climb onto one of the tall stools, shifting in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs, trying to get comfortable. It’s hard to be still. I’m worried, but I won’t text Dominic again. The last thing I want is to come off as anxious. Or worse, needy.
Rob sets the glass down with a warm nod. I thank him with a glance and take a sip—cool, fragrant, easing the nerves still humming under my skin.
Just as I set my glass down, the mille-feuille arrives: delicate and perfect, layers of crisp pastry and vanilla cream. I’m about to take a bite when a voice cuts through the low murmur of the bar.
“Lena?”
I turn, and there he is, Mario, my former boss. He pulls me into a quick hug, easy and familiar, the way he always used to.
“I had a meeting nearby,” he says. “I thought I’d grab a drink before heading out.”
I nod and gesture toward a quiet corner.
We move there together and sit, my dessert between us, wine glasses catching the soft light.
Mario leans in slightly, relaxed, his body turned toward mine.
His hand rests lightly over mine for a moment.
“I wish we’d had more time to catch up while I was here.
Are you okay, Lena? I’ve been a little worried about your future… professionally, I mean.”
His hand stays over mine. I don’t pull away. It feels like a quiet thread between us, a reminder of all the times he’s had my back.
“Thanks, Mario. That means a lot. Sometimes, in this world we work in, I do feel pretty alone.”
He nods slowly and lifts his glass in a silent toast. “You know, you could work with me even remotely. We made a great team.”
I take another small bite of the dessert—delicate, creamy—and set the fork down. Mario doesn’t rush me. He watches me, patient, waiting for an answer.
I smile, but it comes out tighter than I meant.
“I think I’m almost done with the Rinaldi story. After that, honestly, I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll step away from journalism altogether.”
His fingers press gently around mine, a quiet show of support. “That would be a loss. You’re good, Lena. Really good. But I get it. This investigation is risky. It messes with your balance, your sense of safety. Stepping back wouldn’t mean you failed.”
“I’m not walking away. I have to finish this.
But these last few months… they've taught me something else too.” I pause and breathe.
“There are better battles out there. Brighter ones. Ones that don’t drain me but actually give something back.
” I don’t feel as certain as I sound, but I need to believe it.
We’re both leaning in, voices low across the table. The half-eaten dessert sits between us, our glasses nearly empty. Mario squeezes my hand again, the way he always used to when I needed grounding. His eyes don’t leave mine.
Then the air changes. A cold shift, like someone opened a window in winter. I look up. Dominic . Just a few feet away. Tall. Tense. Storm-eyed. That sharp gaze locked on me like a warning flare. He stops at the table. Hands loose at his sides, but there’s energy rolling off him, barely contained.
“Can I ask,” he says slowly, his voice low and even, “why you’re holding my wife’s hand?”
I freeze. Mario flinches and pulls his hand back right away, visibly embarrassed. He stands, not meeting Dominic’s eyes.
“I didn’t mean to cause any misunderstanding,” Mario says quietly. “I’ll leave you two.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Dominic murmurs, his gaze still fixed on me.
Mario slips away with a polite nod. I stay seated, heat rising behind my eyes. I watch him go, annoyed and embarrassed. He’s someone I care about. Almost like family. And now he’s bolting because Dominic showed up with all the subtlety of a jealous teenager.
Dominic leans over me slightly, one hand gripping the back of my chair. Calm, or at least acting like it. The kind of calm held together by sheer will, like one wrong word might crack it wide open.
“You doing okay, Lena? Enjoying the company?”
I shoot him a glare. “Oh, yeah. Awesome. Nothing spices up a professional catch-up like an uninvited interrogation.”
His jaw tightens. He’s trying to keep it together, but I can see the jealousy rising.
“Sure. It looked that way from across the room.” His eyes flick to the dessert, then to the two wine glasses, like he’s inspecting a crime scene.
“Dessert shared, wine poured, hand-holding—textbook work talk.”
Blood rushes to my cheeks, but I don’t look away.
“Now that you mention it, maybe I should’ve dimmed the lights, too. Asked the pianist for something romantic?”
The air between us tightens. Charged. He clears his throat, trying to keep it together. “Let’s go upstairs.”
It’s not quite a command. But it’s nowhere near a suggestion either. It’s frustration and stupid jealousy.
I cross my arms, deciding to stay put. “You go. I’ll follow after I emotionally recover and finish this scandalous mille-feuille.”
His jaw clenches tighter. “It didn’t look like you were suffering while waiting.”
“I wasn’t. But I might be now.”
“I’ll have another dessert sent up.”
“How generous of you. Still no.”
He lets out a slow, irritated sigh and raises one eyebrow in mock amusement. Then throws up his hands — not in surrender, but in delay. A tactical retreat.
I stand, dessert plate in hand, like a peace offering I have no intention of sharing.
I don’t say a word. But I feel his stare burning into my back all the way to the elevator.
We ride up in silence. The tension’s thick, a rope pulled tight between us.
We don’t speak. Behind me, I can hear him breathing.
I feel his stare burning into the back of my neck, my dress, my spine.
Then, just as the elevator dings, “Nice dress. You wore that for your little meeting with Mario?”