Chapter Seventeen — “Dinner and Ice”

The candle between us flickered. The silence lingered.

I stayed seated.

So did he.

Whatever this was, whatever it was becoming, wasn’t done yet.

And neither were we.

Neither of us reached for the food. Not at first.

The air between us was fragile now. Like glass on the edge of breaking.

He stared at his untouched wine glass. I watched the way the flame caught the shadows on his face.

“I didn’t marry you because you were disposable,” he said again, quieter now. Like he was speaking more to the candle than to me.

I didn’t answer.

He looked up, the weight of something heavy behind his eyes. Not fury this time. Not even doubt.

Something colder.

Fear, maybe.

Or worse recognition.

“I married you,” he said slowly, “because you were the only person who didn’t flinch when you saw all the parts of me I tried to hide.”

I let that sit.

But I wasn’t ready to let him rewrite history, either.

“And yet, the first time someone handed you a version of me you didn’t like, you flinched anyway.”

He didn’t argue.

We finally picked the meal in silence. Forks scraping lightly, neither of us really eating. It felt like we were pretending, pretending to be a couple, pretending this wasn’t war with linen napkins and red wine.

“I used to sing in the kitchen,” I said suddenly, breaking the silence. “Before everything. Just… hum whatever was stuck in my head. Lily said it made the place feel less small.”

Damian’s gaze lifted to mine. “And now?”

“Now I don’t sing. And Lily says I sound like frost on the phone.”

He looked like he wanted to say something. But he didn’t.

I leaned back in my chair. “When I was sixteen, I watched my mum beg a pharmacist to give us meds she couldn’t afford. The woman behind the counter called security. We got kicked out. That was the night I learned no one’s coming to save you unless you make yourself useful.”

“You shouldn’t have had to learn that,” he said.

“No one should,” I whispered. “But we do.”

He didn’t respond. Just watched me again with that unreadable expression. Like he was seeing a version of me he didn’t know what to do with. Maybe he’d wanted fire. Maybe he hadn’t expected ash.

Then… quietly, he reached for the bottle to refill my glass. His fingers brushed the edge of mine.

Just for a second.

It wasn’t an accident.

I looked at his hand, then at him.

His jaw shifted. Something flickered behind his eyes, conflict, maybe. Heat. Or guilt.

His thumb hovered over my knuckles. One inch. Maybe less.

Then he pulled back.

Not sharply. Not ashamed. But like a man who couldn’t afford the softness he wanted to feel.

The candle between us swayed in the breath of his retreat.

“You don’t have to be afraid of touching me,” I said quietly.

“I’m not,” he said.

But he didn’t try again.

He stood before I could.

“I’ll be out early tomorrow. The press is circling again. Naomi will update you.”

I rose, steady. “Good night.”

His voice was almost inaudible as he passed. “Ava…”

I looked up.

He stopped. But didn’t finish whatever he’d been about to say. Just left the room like something was chasing him.

I stood alone in the flickering aftermath. The wine is untouched. The air is colder than before.

I moved to the hallway in silence, passing the sconce-lit mirrors. Everything felt sharpened, slowed. I paused near the tall antique mirror at the end of the corridor, the one I hated. The one that always felt too honest.

And then I saw him.

Not beside me.

Behind me.

Reflected.

Damian.

Still, silent. Watching me from the far end of the hall.

Our eyes met in the glass. Neither of us moved. He didn’t speak.

He just… stood there.

Like a shadow that didn’t want to leave.

Like a man who couldn’t stay.

I turned.

The hallway was empty.

But the chill in my spine told me I hadn’t imagined it.