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Lily stood in the threshold. She looked utterly exhausted, the purple shadows beneath her eyes stark in the fading office light.
"We need to talk," she said, her voice entirely devoid of its usual fire.
A fierce, triumphant spark of hope ignited in Ethan's chest. She is ready. He turned to face her, careful to keep the predatory victory out of his expression.
"Of course," Ethan replied, his tone smooth and accommodating.
"We can do it right here," she continued, stepping into the room and crossing her arms defensively over her chest.
"No," Ethan countered smoothly, snapping the brass locks of his briefcase shut. "Not here, Lily. You look dead on your feet, and this office is suffocating. Let me take you to dinner. We can talk properly, away from all of this."
She frowned, a flicker of resistance rising in her eyes. "Ethan, I don't want a meal. I just want to get this over with—"
"Dinner, Lily," he insisted gently, taking a step toward her, employing the same persuasive charm that had won her over years ago. "Just one meal. We both need to eat, and I think we owe it to ourselves to have a civilized conversation in a neutral setting."
She stared at him, the fight visibly draining from her posture. The heartbreak had worn her down to the bone, leaving her simply too tired to argue. She let out a defeated sigh, her shoulders dropping.
"Fine," she murmured, breaking eye contact.
"I'll come pick you up at your apartment at eight," Ethan offered, savoring the rush of adrenaline.
"Okay. Whatever," she replied indifferently, her voice a hollow whisper.
She turned and walked out into the shadowed corridor, leaving Ethan standing alone in the fading light, the intoxicating taste of triumph sweet on his tongue.
Chapter Thirteen
Lily
Standing in front of her bedroom mirror, Lily felt entirely numb. She stared at her reflection, applying just enough concealer to mask the bruised, purple exhaustion beneath her eyes. She had zero desire to leave the apartment, let alone share a meal with the man who had authored her nightmares.
She reached into her closet and pulled out a simple black dress. It fell just below the knee in a straight cut, with a high neckline and a fully covered back. It was elegant enough to pass the dress code of whatever pretentious establishment Ethan had chosen, but conservative enough to act as a physical boundary. It was armor.
The lobby intercom buzzed, jarring her frayed nerves.
Lily grabbed her purse and rode the elevator down. Ethan stood in the center of the lobby, immaculate in a tailored charcoal suit, wearing that infuriatingly polished charm.
"You look beautiful, Lily," he greeted, a genuine spark lighting his blue eyes.
Lily offered a curt nod, bypassing his compliment entirely. She pushed through the revolving glass doors, stepping out into the crisp evening breeze. Ethan fell into step beside her, talking amicably about the Chicago traffic as he led her toward a sleek town car parked at the curb.
He reached out, pulling the passenger door open for her.
Lily took a step forward, and then she froze.
An electric, spine-tingling shiver raced down the nape of her neck. It was a visceral, undeniable physical reaction—the exact sensation she experienced whenever Jason was nearby. Her heart leaped violently inside her ribs. She spun around, her eyes frantically scanning the crowded sidewalk, searching the parked vehicles, hunting for the outline of his truck or the broad-shouldered silhouette of the man she loved.
Nothing.
There were only strangers hurrying past under the streetlamps. No truck. No Jason. Just a cruel, punishing trick played by her own grieving mind.
The profound disappointment crashed over her, leaving her feeling hollow and incredibly foolish. Biting the inside of her cheek to keep the tears at bay, she ducked her head and slid into the leather passenger seat.
Twenty minutes later, the town car pulled up to the valet stand of one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city. A cynical smile touched Lily’s lips. It was a Michelin-starred establishment famous for a waitlist that spanned over six months. Classic Ethan. He always found a way to pull strings and bypass the rules.
The maître d' greeted them by name, taking their coats. But instead of leading them to a table in the bustling main dining room, he escorted them down a narrow corridor, unhooking a velvet rope to usher them into a private dining suite.
The room was bathed in romantic candlelight, the table set with fine crystal and polished silver. It was an intimate, highly calculated setup designed to break down her defenses. A week ago, Lily would have turned around and walked out. But tonight, she was just too exhausted. The fight had drained right out of her bones. She just wanted to get this over with, to hear whatever pitch he had prepared, and go home to mourn the life she had lost. She took her seat without a single word of protest.
