Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the PastThe restaurant Claire had subtly leaked to Adrian—or perhaps booked herself—was a dimly lit Italian bistro in the West Village, tucked away behind a facade of climbing ivy.
The atmosphere was thick with the scent of roasted garlic, melting parmesan, and old regret.
They sat across from each other in a secluded corner booth. A single candle flickered between them, casting long, dancing shadows across Adrian’s sharp cheekbones and dark hair. For the first twenty minutes, they circled each other like wary predators, discussing logistics, the weather, and the ridiculousness of Claire’s wedding demands with meticulous, polite detachment.
Then the wine arrived.
Adrian poured a glass of robust Barolo for Nora, sliding it across the dark wood table.
“You haven’t changed much,” Adrian said quietly, swirling his own glass. “You still bite your bottom lip when you’re stressed about a deadline.”
Nora stopped her glass halfway to her mouth. She set it down carefully, her patience wearing thin.
“Ten years have passed, Adrian. People change. I’m not nineteen anymore. I don’t panic every time a man has a five-year plan.”
“Is that what you thought it was?” A bitter edge crept into his voice. “A five-year plan?”
“You came to my parents’ house with daisies and a speech about waiting for me to catch up,” Nora said, her voice dropping, the sting of that night rushing back to the surface. “You acted like my entire life was a puzzle piece you had already designed and fitted into your own.”
“I loved you,” Adrian said, and the raw, unvarnished truth in his tone hit Nora like a physical blow. He didn't look away, his green eyes burning into hers. “I was twenty-five, arrogant, and terrified that if I didn't lock down my future, I’d lose the only person who ever made me want to build something that mattered. When you looked at me like I was a cage instead of a home... it broke something in me, Nora.”
The silence that followed was heavy, laden with all the unspoken words of a decade spent apart.
Nora felt a lump form in her throat. She looked down at the flickering candle, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass.
“I was scared, Adrian,” she whispered, the confession slipping out before she could stop it. “You were so ready for the world. I felt like I was drowning in expectations. When you left for London, I thought... I thought it was what we both needed.”
“It wasn't what I needed,” Adrian said softly. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing against the back of her hand. His skin was warm, calloused in all the right places. A jolt of electricity raced up her arm, making her breath hitch. “And it clearly wasn’t what you needed either.”
She should have pulled her hand away. She should have reminded him of the rules, of the distance, of the six weeks hanging over their heads.
May you like
Instead, she turned her hand over, intertwining her fingers with his.
And across the restaurant, a flash went off.
