CHAPTER 32: ONE ORDINARY DINNER

I read Alexander's invitation three times before deciding what to do.

The old house by the lake.

He had never taken anyone there. He wanted to show me where he had grown up, before business and family secrets had changed him.

It was a generous invitation, but I wasn't ready to step into another part of his world simply because he had opened the door.

I wanted to know whether we could enjoy something as simple as dinner without turning it into another important event.

So I typed my reply.

Me: I'd like to have dinner with you. But somewhere ordinary. No private dining rooms, no expensive champagne, and no restaurant where the waiter knows your name.

His response came quickly.

Alexander: Understood.

Then another message appeared.

Alexander: I know a place where the waiter probably won't even know mine.

I laughed.

Me: Good. I'll see you there.

 

At seven o'clock, I stood outside my apartment checking my reflection in the dark window.

I wore a simple blue dress, small earrings, and comfortable shoes. Nothing expensive. Nothing borrowed.

I wanted to look like myself.

A car stopped near the pavement, and Alexander stepped out.

He wore dark trousers, a white shirt, and a charcoal jacket. There was no driver waiting beside him, no security team surrounding the car, and no expensive display of power.

He looked almost uncomfortable holding a small bunch of flowers.

I stared at them.

“Flowers?”

He glanced down.

“I was told they're an acceptable thing to bring to dinner.”

“Who told you that?”

“Victoria.”

I laughed.

“I'm beginning to think Victoria is responsible for all your improvements.”

“She would probably agree.”

He offered me the flowers.

“They're not expensive.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Were you planning to tell me that before or after I accepted them?”

“Before, actually.”

I took them, smiling.

“Thank you. They're lovely.”

He opened the car door, then paused.

“Would you prefer to drive yourself?”

The question surprised me.

“Are you asking because you want to be polite or because you're worried I'll escape?”

“Both are possible.”

I laughed and got into the car.

 

The restaurant was called The Corner Table.

It sat on a quiet street between a small bookshop and a bakery. Warm yellow light spilled through its front windows, and a handwritten menu was displayed beside the door.

Inside, the walls were covered with old photographs and shelves of mismatched books. Small lamps rested on wooden tables, and the smell of garlic, fresh bread, and roasted vegetables filled the room.

A couple near the window were sharing a pizza. Two elderly women laughed over cups of tea. At the counter, a young waiter was trying to balance three plates while another staff member quietly corrected him.

It felt comfortable.

Real.

Alexander looked around.

“This is nice.”

“Don't sound so surprised.”

“I wasn't expecting the chairs to be different.”

I looked at the mismatched wooden chairs.

“They have character.”

“They have different heights.”

“Alexander.”

He lifted both hands.

“I'm learning.”

We were shown to a small table near the window.

The waiter brought us menus and two glasses of water.

Alexander looked at the menu with unusual concentration.

“Do you come here often?” he asked.

“Sometimes. I used to come here after evening classes.”

“Interior design classes?”

I nodded.

“Before everything became difficult, I spent a lot of time imagining what I'd do with my own studio.”

“What would it look like?”

I smiled.

“Bright. Lots of natural light. Comfortable furniture. Nothing too perfect. I want people to feel they can sit down without worrying about ruining something.”

He considered that.

“Sounds like the opposite of my office.”

“Exactly.”

He smiled.

“I suppose that says something about me.”

“It says you need more comfortable chairs.”

 

For the first few minutes, conversation came slowly.

It was strange.

We had shared secrets, arguments, fear, and a kiss that had changed everything. Yet sitting across from him without a contract between us felt unfamiliar.

There was no reason for him to ask where I was going afterward.

No reason for me to explain every decision.

We were simply two people having dinner.

And somehow, that made me more nervous than I expected.

The waiter returned.

“What can I get you?”

I ordered grilled chicken with vegetables.

Alexander looked at the menu.

“I'll have the same.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Are you copying my order?”

“I'm trusting your judgment.”

“You're a billionaire. You can afford to make your own decisions.”

He laughed.

“All right. I'll have the pasta.”

“Better.”

After the waiter left, Alexander leaned back.

“Tell me something I don't know about you.”

I thought for a moment.

“I hate thunderstorms.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Really?”

“Yes. I pretend I don't, but I always close the curtains and turn the television up.”

He smiled.

“Evelyn used to hate them too.”

The name settled between us.

He noticed my expression.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up something painful.”

“It's all right. She was part of your life. I don't expect you to pretend she wasn't.”

He nodded.

“I used to spend most evenings working. Even when I wasn't in the office, I was thinking about the next meeting, the next deal, the next problem. I rarely noticed what was happening around me.”

“And now?”

“Now I'm trying to notice.”

I smiled.

“That's a good start.”

 

The food arrived, and the conversation became easier.

I told him about a patient at the clinic who had mistaken me for a dentist and asked whether I could remove his tooth.

Alexander laughed so hard that he had to put down his glass.

“What did you say?”

“I told him I was the receptionist, not a magician.”

“And he?”

“He asked if I could recommend a magician.”

Alexander shook his head.

“I've never had that problem.”

“Because people are probably too frightened to ask you anything.”

He gave me a thoughtful look.

“That's possible.”

We talked about Daniel's university plans, my mother's improving health, and Ethan's latest design project.

Alexander listened without interrupting.

When I mentioned that the new project required a few materials I couldn't easily afford, he immediately said, “I could arrange—”

I pointed my fork at him.

“No.”

He stopped.

“I haven't finished.”

“You were about to offer to pay.”

“I was about to offer a solution.”

“That's what you always say before offering to pay.”

He looked almost offended.

“It's an efficient solution.”

“Sometimes. But not every problem needs your bank account.”

He considered that, then nodded.

“Fair enough. What would you do?”

“Compare suppliers, adjust the design, and find something that works within the budget.”

“And if that doesn't work?”

“Then I'll ask for advice. Not a cheque.”

A small smile appeared on his face.

“All right. No cheque.”

“Good.”

“Can I at least recommend a supplier?”

I laughed.

“Now you're learning.”

 

As the evening continued, Alexander became more relaxed.

He told me about his childhood at the lake house, about fishing with Sebastian before their relationship became complicated, and about his mother insisting they eat breakfast together every Sunday.

“I don't remember the last time I had a Sunday breakfast with anyone,” he admitted.

“Why not?”

“Work. Meetings. Travel. I convinced myself those things couldn't wait.”

“And could they?”

He looked down at his plate.

“Most of them could.”

I watched him quietly.

“Do you ever regret it?”

“More than I can explain.”

He glanced around the restaurant.

“I spent so much of my life chasing success that I forgot what it felt like to enjoy something that didn't lead to another achievement.”

“Like dinner?”

“Like dinner. Like a walk. Like sitting somewhere without checking my phone every five minutes.”

I smiled.

“Then don't check it.”

He looked at the phone beside his plate.

For a moment, I thought he would reach for it.

Instead, he turned it face down.

“There.”

I laughed.

“I'm impressed.”

“Don't get used to it. I may need medical assistance.”

We both laughed, and for a while, everything felt easy.

When the waiter brought dessert, Alexander asked whether I wanted to share.

I chose the chocolate cake.

He chose the apple tart.

Naturally, I stole a piece of his.

“You ordered your own dessert,” he said.

“I wanted to try yours.”

“Then why didn't you order it?”

“Because yours looked better.”

He pushed the plate toward me.

“Take it.”

I smiled.

“Thank you.”

It was such a small thing, but I found myself remembering how different this man had once been.

Back then, even his generosity had felt like a transaction.

Tonight, he simply shared his dessert.

 

Then his phone rang.

Alexander glanced at the screen.

His expression changed immediately.

He stood.

“Excuse me. I need to take this.”

I nodded.

He walked a few steps away and answered.

“Victoria?”

I couldn't hear the other side, but I saw his shoulders stiffen.

“What do you mean?”

A pause.

“No. That can't be right.”

He turned toward the window.

“Who else knows?”

Another pause.

His hand tightened around the phone.

“Don't send anything through the usual system. Preserve the original files. I'll deal with it personally.”

He listened for several seconds before saying quietly, “I'm on my way.”

Then he ended the call.

When he returned, the relaxed expression I had enjoyed all evening was gone.

I put down my fork.

“Alexander?”

He pulled out his chair but didn't sit immediately.

“Something has happened at Blackwood International.”

And suddenly, our ordinary dinner didn't feel so ordinary anymore.