The Table between Us

CHAPTER 12 

Lexi's POV 

The moment my shift ended, I was already sweating, despite it being only about 11°C. I felt nauseous, as if I were a sixteen-year-old who just found out she was pregnant. My entire body ached from hours spent on my feet, and my hair was damp from helping out in the kitchen since Lori had called in sick. I was the only one who knew how to make everything just right. But none of that compared to the storm brewing in my stomach—nausea, nerves, and a kind of fear that didn’t come with sirens or shadows; it came from choices, from names like Brandon Wilson and contracts that could rewrite your life.

I was in the back, gathering my things, when my phone buzzed.

Aria 🦋 :Can I come with you? Please. Just to make sure he doesn’t try anything weird. I promise I won’t say anything.

I stared at the message for a long moment before replying.

Me: No, babe. I need to do this alone.

Aria 🦋: At least let him send a car. Please, Lex.

Me:I can handle it. I’ve got this.

Aria 🦋:Fine. But if he says anything shady, just text me a “🦄,” and I’ll call Dan to send a SWAT team.

Me:Deal. Love you. And please eat before I get back, don't wait for me, I might have dinner there.

Aria 🦋:Love you more. And you and I both know you won't, but I will cause I'm really hungry already, Be safe, Mana.

I shoved my phone into my bag before I could second-guess myself. I had to tell Aria that I had decided to meet with him, and she had been asking to come with me since I made the decision, but I couldn’t let her do that. This was between him and me.

I’d already told Brandon not to send a car, which should have been my first red flag. I was going to meet a billionaire, and I turned down his chauffeur as if I had Uber money to burn. But I couldn't help it; I needed to feel like I still had some control, some dignity, even if it meant walking into a storm on blistered feet.

Lena Restaurant wasn’t just expensive; it was the kind of place people reserved for anniversaries, proposals, or closed-door million-dollar deals. With valet service, a private dining room, a wine wall, and a hush-hush atmosphere, very powerful people met there. I didn’t belong there; I didn’t even know what fork to use first in places like that.

I left the café at 10 minutes past 7. The sleeves of my sweater were faintly covered with flour, and my hands smelled of milk and cinnamon syrup. I didn’t have time to go home, not with my meeting set for eight and a whole city to cross. I just tried my best to brush it off.

I walked quickly to the 181st Street subway station, weaving through school kids, fruit vendors, and old men playing dominoes on folding tables. My limbs ached, but my nerves buzzed louder.

The A train screeched into the station, already crowded. I squeezed in, gripping a metal pole, wedged between a delivery guy with headphones and a woman talking loudly on the phone. The familiar rattle and sway of the subway almost calmed me—almost.

As the train hurtled south, the world transformed.

Chipped brick buildings gave way to glass high-rises. Mom-and-pop bodegas turned into Bloomingdale’s. Worn shoes were replaced by heels that cost more than my month’s rent.

I got off at 59th Street, Columbus Circle, where the buzz of wealth instantly thickened the air. Central Park shimmered at the edge of my vision, its trees catching the late sunlight like gold. The air smelled cleaner here, colder, like money.

I quickly checked my reflection in the dark window of a department store, wiped my lips, smoothed my hair, straightened my shoulders, and took a deep breath.

Then I turned toward Lena—the elegant restaurant discreetly tucked between towering hotels and private clubs. The name glowed in soft gold above the entrance, the kind of place where the doorman doesn’t smile unless he sees your name on the list.

I stepped forward.

Each step was heavy, but my reason for being there kept me moving: Aria. Always Aria.

Questions began swirling in my mind again. Was this worth it? Could I really go through with it? Would I still be myself at the end of all this?

I reached the front, and a valet looked at me as if I were lost.

I smiled tightly. “I have a reservation.”

He led me inside to the hostess, a woman in a silk dress with a bun too perfect to be real. When she saw me, she raised one perfectly waxed brow, and when I told her who I was meeting, she raised the second one. She looked through the book and found Brandon’s name on the list. Her entire tone shifted as if she’d suddenly realized I wasn’t a lost waitress in cheap shoes, I was someone important.

“This way, Miss Torres.” 

The restaurant was quieter than I expected, discreet, with plush velvet seats, low lighting, and music that seemed to try not to offend anyone. Every table was spaced far enough apart to keep conversations private.

He was already there.

Sitting at a corner table like a king at the head of his own silent kingdom. His suit jacket was off, sleeves rolled to his forearms, silver watch glinting under the light. His phone lay untouched on the table, as if he’d been waiting.

Somehow, he didn’t look surprised to see me.

His eyes flicked up, cold, controlled, watching me like I was the one on trial.

I lifted my chin and walked toward him, trying not to let my nerves show, but they crawled up my spine like ice.

He stood just as I reached the table. “Alexis.”

I hated how smooth he sounded, as if nothing about this was strange to him.

I nodded. “Brandon.”

“Please, Lexi is fine. I've said this before; you don't have to call me by my full name.”

A flicker of something crossed his face. Annoyance? Amusement? I couldn’t tell.

He gestured toward the seat across from him. “Please.”

I sat down, clutching my bag like it was a lifeline.

A waiter appeared immediately, probably drawn by Brandon’s aura of power and wealth. “Would you like something to drink, Miss?”

“I’ll just have water, thank you,” I replied.

“Sparkling or still?”

“…Still,” I said.

The waiter nodded and vanished.

Brandon leaned back, studying me.

“You came,” he said.

“You knew I would.”

He didn’t deny it.

I looked him in the eye. “Let’s get something straight. I’m only here to talk. Nothing is agreed to. Nothing is signed.”

“Understood.”

“And if I don’t like what I hear, I walk.”

“You can walk anytime.”

I folded my arms. “Then talk. What’s the actual deal?”

He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing how much truth to offer.

“Six months,” he began. “Public appearances. Events. Photos. You’ll live with me, wear my ring, and act the part.”

“I'm sorry, what? Live with you? Act?”

He met my gaze. “I don’t expect you to feel anything.”

“Well, that’s mutual,” I muttered.

A ghost of a smirk appeared at the corner of his mouth but vanished almost instantly.

“Yes, you'll have to live with me. For it to seem real, it's a necessity, even though it's one I don't particularly favor.”

“You’ll have access to everything you need. You won’t want for anything. Your sister’s care will be fully covered. And you’ll walk away with three million dollars. Clean.”

I stared at him.

“And what do you get?” I asked, my voice low. “Besides someone to parade around like a trophy?”

“Privacy,” he said. “Control. Freedom.”

I blinked. “Freedom?”

His jaw tightened. “There are… expectations. From my family. From the press. This fulfills those expectations.”

I sat in silence, absorbing his words. It felt like we were playing chess, but I didn’t know the rules. He wrote the game.

I looked away, focusing on the clinking of silverware in the distance.

“Why me?” I finally asked. “Why not one of those girls with Ivy League smiles and polished nails?”

His answer was simple.

“Because they’d want something back, and I've told you already; you’ve been chosen.”

“And I don’t want something back?”

“You want survival. That’s different.”

I sucked in a breath, sharp and cold.

That’s when the waiter returned with my water and Brandon’s drink.

No one spoke.

He picked up his glass but didn’t sip it.

“I’m not saying yes,” I said.

“I’m not asking you to. Not yet.”

“But if I do… There will be rules.”

He nodded once. “Of course.”

“And lines we don’t cross.”

He tilted his head, studying me. “Such as?”

I stared at him. “We fake the relationship. We do what’s necessary, but I don’t become yours. Not in the way that matters.”

A slow blink. Then, “Understood.”

The tension sat heavy between us, two strangers tied together by the illusion of a headline.

But behind the polished steel of his eyes, I could sense it.

Brandon Wilson didn’t care about love, and I didn’t believe in fairy tales.

But this? 

This was survival.

And maybe that was enough.