“Luna,” Sofia said softly behind me, “why tonight?”
I didn’t turn. “It’s either a goodbye meal... or a new beginning.”
She didn’t say anything. But I felt her gaze linger like a hand on my back, warm and worried.
When the food was done, I plated it carefully, lit the candles in the dining room, and poured the wine. I poured one glass of red, the one he liked after long meetings—and left mine empty. His seat at the end of the table was still pulled out from last week. I left it that way.
Dinner was set for 9.
At 9:03, I told myself he was just caught up with business.
At 9:20, I whispered, He’ll be here. He promised.
At 9:45, I began folding the napkin on my lap over and over, my stomach churning from more than just nausea.
By 10:00, the food was cold.
And so was the seat across from me.
I sat there a while longer, watching the flame of the candle flicker in the draft. My fingers brushed over the lip of the wine glass, untouched.
I had given him one more chance. And he didn’t come.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s really over.
I stood slowly, my limbs heavy, my throat thick. The hallway felt longer than usual as I walked back to our room.
I opened the drawer where I had hidden the papers, pulled them out.
My hands were trembling.
My heart was racing.
Is this how it ends?
All the bruised kisses, the whispered Russian in the dark, The night we made a mess in the painting studio... and still fucked there, with color on our hands and need in our mouths.
Would our child grow up never knowing him?
Would he ever know them at all?
I clenched the papers tightly in my fist.
No. I need to go. I need to start over. I can’t raise a child with a man who chooses his empire over us.
Still, I gave him one last chance. Just one more.
I picked up the phone and called.
It rang.
No answer.
I called again.
Still nothing.
The air left my lungs like a blow to the ribs. I felt stupid. Empty.
