The dinner

Deep breaths," Rhea whispered to her reflection. "Just breathe."

The woman staring back at her looked like a stranger. The white dress her mother had bought hung perfectly on her frame, but it felt like armor, like something she was wearing to protect herself from what was coming. Her hands were trembling as she reached for her purse, and she had to stop and grip the edge of the sink to steady herself.

She could still cancel and call her mother and make up an excuse and pretend she was sick, or something had come up. Many lies that were already piling up in her throat like stones.

But she thought about Melissa's voice on the phone, bright and hopeful in a way she had not heard in years. The way her mother had laughed, light and free, like she had finally found something worth smiling about. She could not be the reason that happiness faded from her mother's eyes.

So she grabbed her purse, walked out the door, and called an Uber.

The restaurant was one of those places with dim lighting and white tablecloths, the kind of place where you could hear the clink of glasses and the murmur of quiet conversations. Rhea stood at the entrance for a long moment, her heart hammering against her ribs, scanning the room for her mother's face.

She found her at a corner table near the window. Melissa was glowing, practically radiant, her hand resting on the table next to a glass of wine. And beside her sat Alaric.

He stood as Rhea approached, and she felt the air leave her lungs. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair and a face that demanded attention. His eyes met hers, and she saw it—recognition. He knew who she was. He knew the moment he saw her photo.

"Rhea," he said, his voice low and smooth. "I'm so glad to finally meet you."

His hand was warm as he shook hers, but there was nothing lingering in his touch. His expression was composed, almost bored. He was a man who had seen everything and was impressed by nothing.

"Alaric," Rhea managed, forcing the words out. "My mother has told me so much about you."

"All good things, I hope." He smiled, but it was the kind of smile that gave nothing away.

"All wonderful things," Melissa said, reaching for his hand. "Now sit, both of you. Let's enjoy this."

They settled at the table, and the waiter appeared with menus. Rhea ordered the first thing she saw, not caring what it was. She could not focus on food. She could barely focus on anything except the man sitting across from her, the man who had held her in the dark two years ago, the man who was now holding her mother's hand.

Melissa talked through most of the meal. She talked about the villa, about the weekend plans, about how excited she was to have them both together. Rhea nodded and smiled, forcing herself to eat, forcing herself to look like she was fine.

But Alaric's eyes flickered to her occasionally, cool and unreadable. He asked questions about her job, her hobbies, her dreams. She gave short answers, careful answers, the kind that revealed nothing.

At one point, Melissa excused herself to take a call. She stepped away from the table, and the air between Rhea and Alaric shifted.

He leaned back in his chair, swirling his wine glass. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Rhea kept her eyes on her plate. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't do that." His voice was calm, almost detached. "We both know who the other is. Let's not waste time pretending."

She looked up, meeting his gaze. "What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing." He took a sip of his wine. "I'm not interested in rehashing the past. Whatever happened between us was a long time ago. It means nothing and changes nothing."

She stared at him, her heart pounding. This was not how she had expected him to react. She had braced herself for awkwardness, for tension, for the weight of unspoken words. Instead, he was dismissing it like it was nothing.

"You're just going to pretend it didn't happen?" she asked.

"I'm not pretending anything." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "I'm simply choosing to focus on what matters and what matters is your mother. I care about her and I love her. Whatever happened between us stays in the past where it belongs."

She felt something twist in her chest. She should have been relieved. This was exactly what she wanted. He was letting her off the hook and was making it easy.

So why did it hurt?

"Agreed," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "It stays in the past."

He nodded once, his expression unchanged. "Good. Then we have nothing to worry about."

Melissa returned, sliding back into her seat with a smile. "Sorry about that, it was work stuff. Now, where were we?"

Alaric reached for her hand, his face softening in a way Rhea had not seen before. "We were talking about how beautiful you look tonight."

Melissa laughed, her cheeks flushing. "You're impossible."

"I'm honest."

Rhea watched them, her stomach churning. He was different with her mother. He was softer, warmer, more present. He looked at Melissa like she was the only woman in the room. Like Rhea did not exist at all.

She wanted to scream and cry. She wanted to be anywhere but here.

Instead, she smiled and said all the right things. She watched him hold her mother's hand and kiss her cheek and promise her the world. She watched him be the man her mother had been waiting for.

And she hated herself for noticing how much it stung.

When the dinner finally ended, Melissa hugged her tightly. "Thank you for this," she whispered. "It means so much to me."

Rhea hugged her back, blinking back tears. "I'm happy you're happy, Mom."

On the ride home, she stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past. She thought about Alaric's cold eyes, his dismissive words, the way he had brushed aside their history like it was nothing.

She had wanted him to forget and move on.

She just had not expected him to do it so easily.

---

She collapsed on her bed when she got home, still in her dress, staring at the ceiling. The silence of her apartment pressed in on her, heavy and suffocating. She closed her eyes, and all she could see was his face. The way he had looked at her across the table—like she was a stranger, like she meant nothing.

She had spent two years trying to forget that night. She had convinced herself it was a mistake, a moment of weakness, something she would never repeat. She had moved on. She has Noah and she has built a life.

But sitting in that restaurant, watching Alaric hold her mother's hand, she had felt something she could not name. Something that felt dangerously like regret.

She pressed her palms against her eyes, willing the tears away. She had no right to feel this way. He was her mother's boyfriend and he was going to be her stepfather. He had made it clear that he past was dead and buried.

So why did she feel like she was the one being buried with it?