“You must be starving,” Damian said, closing the folder in front of him.
My stomach growled in response, and I realized I’d barely touchedthe sandwich Sandra had brought me hours ago.
“There’s a place not far from here,” he continued. “If you’d like to get some proper food.”
I hesitated. Dinner with Damian outside the office felt different somehow—less protected.
“Unless you’re too tired,” he added, misreading my silence.
“No, I—” I paused. “Food would be good.”
Twenty minutes later, we were seated at a corner table in an elegant restaurant called Auberge. The soft lighting and hushed conversations created an atmosphere of privacy despite the other diners.
“Is this okay?” Damian asked as we settled in. “We can go somewhere else if you prefer.”
I glanced around at the understated luxury. “It’s nice. Just… different from where I usually eat.”
“Which is?”
“Lately? Whatever I can microwave in a motel room.” I attempted a smile.
The waiter appeared with menus, and Damian ordered wine without consulting the list. When the waiter left, I raised an eyebrow.
“They always have this particular Bordeaux,” he explained. “It’s approachable but complex.”
“Like a good lawyer?” The joke slipped out before I could stop it.
Damian’s surprise gave way to a genuine smile that transformed his face. “I’ve been called many things, but ‘approachable’ isn’t usually one of them.”
The wine arrived, and as we studied our menus, I felt some of the day’s tension begin to unwind. The restaurant’s quiet elegance created a bubble that seemed removed from the reality of my situation.
After we ordered, Damian leaned back in his chair. “Tell me something about yourself that isn’t in your case file.”
The request caught me off guard. “Likewhat?”
“Anything. Where you grew up. How you became an artist. Something that has nothing to do with Marcus Delaney.”
I took a sip of wine, considering. “I grew up in Montreal,” I began hesitantly. “Just me and my mom after my dad left when I was four.”
“What was that like?”
“Hard. We never had enough money.” I traced the condensation on my water glass. “My mom worked two jobs most of the time. But she always made sure I had art supplies, even when we could barely afford groceries.”
Damian listened attentively as I described our tiny apartment, the way my mother would bring home discarded magazines from the hotel where she cleaned rooms so I could cut out images for collages.
“She sounds remarkable,” he said when I paused.
“She was.” I smiled at the memory. “She didn’t understand why I wanted to draw all the time, but she supported it anyway. When I got the scholarship to art school, she cried.”
Our food arrived—perfectly seared scallops for me, steak for Damian. The first bite melted in my mouth, and I realized how long it had been since I’d had a proper meal.
“What happened to her?” Damian asked gently.
“Cancer. My first year of art school right as I was leaving to start classes.” I set down my fork. “It was fast. By the time they found it, it was everywhere. Three months from diagnosis to funeral.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I painted through it,” I continued, surprising myself with how easily the words came. “All that grief—I put it on canvas. My professor, Claude, he said it was the most honest work he’d ever seen from a first-year student.”
