Dinner With My Husband

I should refuse.

That’s what a smart woman would do.

Refuse the private chef.

Refuse the dim lighting.

Refuse the man who looks at her like he’s already memorized every version of her.

But I don’t.

Because I need to understand him.

And maybe—

I need to understand myself.

---

The dining room overlooks Central Park.

Night has fallen.

The city glows like spilled diamonds.

Candles flicker along the table.

White roses in a crystal vase.

Two plates.

Two glasses.

Two seats facing each other like opposing counsel.

“You planned this?” I ask.

Adrian adjusts his cufflinks.

“I planned to feed you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

A faint smirk touches his mouth.

“I know.”

He pulls out my chair.

I hesitate.

Then sit.

He takes the seat across from me.

The distance feels intentional.

Controlled.

---

The first course arrives silently.

Seared scallops.

White wine reduction.

Perfectly plated.

“I don’t remember what I like,” I say.

“You hate cilantro.”

I blink.

“Why?”

“You said it tastes like soap.”

I stare at the plate.

No cilantro.

“You remembered that?”

“I remember everything about you.”

His voice isn’t soft.

It’s certain.

That certainty unsettles me.

“Then tell me something,” I challenge. “What was our first date?”

A flicker passes through his eyes.

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Then what was it?”

“You were still engaged.”

My stomach tightens.

“You met me while I was with Marcus?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And you hated me.”

I scoff.

“That sounds more believable.”

A slow smile curves his mouth.

“You called me arrogant.”

“Were you?”

“Yes.”

At least he’s honest.

“What changed?” I ask.

“You.”

Silence stretches.

“I don’t remember falling in love with you.”

“You didn’t fall.”

“What does that mean?”

“You fought it.”

The words send a strange warmth through my chest.

“Why?”

“Because loving me meant burning your life down.”

My pulse stutters.

“And I did?”

“Yes.”

His eyes darken.

“You walked away from safety for me.”

That doesn’t sound like the girl I remember being.

Safe.

Structured.

Predictable.

“You make it sound dramatic.”

“It was.”

---

The second course arrives.

He waits until the door closes before speaking again.

“You kissed me in the rain,” he says quietly.

The memory doesn’t come.

But my body reacts.

A sudden flicker of heat under my skin.

“You’re making that up.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Where was Marcus?”

“Inside the restaurant.”

My fork pauses mid-air.

“You’re lying.”

“No.”

“You expect me to believe I cheated?”

“You didn’t cheat,” he says evenly. “You ended it two days later.”

The room feels smaller.

“You must have manipulated me.”

A muscle in his jaw flexes.

“You think that little of yourself?”

“I think that little of you.”

Silence.

Sharp.

Tense.

He leans back slightly.

“You pursued me.”

The words hit harder than anything else tonight.

“I would never.”

“You did.”

“Why?”

His gaze drops slowly to my mouth.

“You liked that I didn’t need you.”

Heat floods my cheeks.

“That’s not romantic.”

“You didn’t want romance,” he says quietly. “You wanted fire.”

The word lingers in the air between us.

Fire.

Danger.

Destruction.

“And what do you want now?” I ask.

He doesn’t hesitate.

“You.”

My breath catches.

“Because I’m your wife?”

“No.”

His voice lowers.

“Because you’re mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone makes my stomach flip.

“That’s toxic.”

“It’s honest.”

My heart pounds too fast.

I look away first.

Again.

Why do I keep doing that?

---

Midway through dessert, my phone buzzes.

Marcus.

I freeze.

Adrian notices immediately.

“Answer it,” he says calmly.

“You don’t mind?”

“I want to hear what he says.”

“That’s controlling.”

“That’s transparency.”

I hesitate.

Then answer.

“Hi.”

“Alessa,” Marcus says softly. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“Are you alone?”

My eyes flick to Adrian.

He’s watching me.

Calm.

Still.

“No,” I say.

A pause on the other end.

“With him?”

“Yes.”

Marcus exhales.

“You don’t have to stay there.”

Something in my chest shifts.

Stay.

Why does that word feel complicated?

“It’s my home,” I say slowly.

Silence.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Marcus replies.

Adrian’s gaze darkens slightly.

“Marcus,” I say carefully, “what happened between me and Adrian?”

Another pause.

Longer this time.

“You were unhappy.”

“That’s vague.”

“He worked too much.”

“That’s not a reason to file for divorce.”

“It is if you’re always alone.”

The words hit something inside me.

Alone.

Was I?

I glance at Adrian.

He doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t defend himself.

Just watches.

“Did he cheat?” I ask.

Adrian’s expression doesn’t change.

Marcus hesitates.

“No.”

The answer surprises me.

“Did I cheat?”

Marcus exhales slowly.

“No.”

“Then why did I stop loving him?”

Silence.

And for the first time—

Marcus doesn’t answer immediately.

“Grief changes people,” he says finally.

My stomach tightens.

“You knew about the baby?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It wasn’t my place.”

I hang up shortly after.

The room feels heavier.

“You asked him why you stopped loving me,” Adrian says quietly.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He didn’t answer.”

A faint shadow crosses his face.

“Because he doesn’t know.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me.”

Silence stretches.

Charged.

Painful.

“You started resenting me,” he says finally.

“For what?”

“For surviving.”

My breath catches.

“What does that mean?”

“You blamed yourself for the miscarriage.”

“I—”

“You said it was your body’s fault.”

Tears sting unexpectedly.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You did.”

His voice softens.

“You hated that I didn’t fall apart the way you did.”

The words hit like a quiet bomb.

“I was grieving.”

“So was I.”

“Then why didn’t you show it?”

“Because one of us had to stay standing.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Crushing.

“And that made you look strong,” I whisper.

“Yes.”

“And I hated you for it.”

“Yes.”

My chest tightens painfully.

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” he agrees calmly. “It wasn’t.”

The honesty disarms me.

“I don’t remember any of this.”

“You will.”

He stands slowly.

Walks around the table.

Stops beside me.

Not touching.

Not yet.

“You think I’m controlling,” he says quietly.

“You are.”

“You think I’m manipulative.”

“You might be.”

He leans down slightly.

Close enough that I can feel his breath against my ear.

“But I never stopped loving you.”

My pulse spikes.

“Even when I asked for a divorce?”

“Especially then.”

My throat goes dry.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

His fingers brush lightly against my wrist.

Just barely.

And my body betrays me.

A rush of heat.

A flicker of something dangerous.

Familiar.

“You feel that,” he murmurs.

I pull my hand away instantly.

“No.”

A faint smile curves his mouth.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

The air feels too thick.

Too intimate.

“I’m going to bed,” I say abruptly.

He steps back immediately.

“Goodnight, Alessandra.”

As I walk toward the hallway, he adds—

“You asked me once what I was most afraid of.”

I pause.

“What did you say?”

“That you’d wake up one day and realize you deserved someone softer.”

My chest tightens.

“And?”

“And I told you I’d rather be the villain you chose than the hero you forgot.”

The words settle deep in my bones.

And for the first time—

I’m not sure which man scares me more.

The one I remember loving.

Or the one who refuses to let me go

———-

Later that night, unable to sleep, I wander into the study.

And in the bottom drawer of Adrian’s desk—

I find the divorce papers.

Signed.

By me.

But not by him.