"I'm more than grown up, Arturo," I purred. "I'm Mrs. O'Sullivan now."
I smiled as I ordered, just as I used to. "The usual for him. Whiskey, neat." I knew Declan's preferences by heart, right down to which hand he preferred to shoot with.
However, just as the owner nodded, Declan cut in. "No. Change that to the '82 red."
He met my eyes, a flicker of confusion hardening into resolve. "My tastes have changed, Cassia."
My smile froze, but I quickly consoled myself. It's fine. I've lost ten years. People's tastes are bound to change in a decade.
I brushed it off, unwrapping the custom silver cutlery and handing it to him. "Even better. I like red wine, too. We can share."
But Declan didn't take it. Instead, he passed the exquisitely carved knife to the woman who had remained silent.
"Chiara. Take a look at this."
Chiara.
The name made me freeze. In that instant, I understood why she looked so familiar.
Chiara Rizzo. Declan's childhood sweetheart. Back when we were twenty, she was the untouchable Principessa of the Rizzo family.
So some tastes, even after ten years, never changed.
So this was it? This was why, ten years from now, I'd want to end my marriage to the man I’d loved for fifteen years? Just because she was back?
Bitterness coiled in my gut. My fingers traced the strap of my crossbody bag. Inside was the dissolution petition and a sketchbook.
A voice whispered that if I opened that sketchbook, I would find the reason I wanted to leave Declan, but I just gripped the strap tighter, refusing to look.
I loved him.
The twenty-year-old me still loved Declan with everything I had.
At the table, Declan and Chiara conversed as if I wasn't even there.
A bitter jealousy stung my eyes. I deliberately knocked over my wine glass, the sound sharp in the quiet restaurant, just to make him look at me. He didn't even flinch.
Perhaps the thirty-year-old me would have politely excused herself and left with her dignity intact.
But the twenty-year-old me? I didn't know how to feign magnanimity.
I slammed my silverware down with a clatter and snapped, "Declan, I'm furious! And nothing you say is going to fix it this time!"
I grabbed my bag and stormed out of the restaurant.
I loved him. But that didn't mean I wouldn't get angry.
I sat on a bench at the street corner, waiting for him to chase after me, to apologize. But three hours passed, and he never appeared.
My mind felt like a blank slate in a world I didn't recognize, but I somehow managed to get a grip.
It's fine. I'm used to Declan's coldness. Otherwise, I never would have been able to marry him.
I crossed my legs and sent him a message from my encrypted phone: "Darling, where's our home? You know I forgot."
Almost instantly, his reply came. It was the location of a penthouse apartment, along with a cutting remark: "Don't go wandering off with that busted memory of yours. And don't cause me any more trouble."
I ignored the last part, sent him a string of kissy-face emojis, and added playfully, "Thank you, darling!"
When I finally walked into the fortress-like apartment, the emptiness hit me like a wall.
It was a huge space, silent and vacant. There was only one set of toiletries, one pair of slippers, one pillow on the bed.
This place didn't feel like a home for two. It felt like a barracks for one.
So I opened the storage room, found our dusty old photos, and arranged them on the tables.
Then I went online and ordered a mountain of his-and-hers items, carefully placing them in every corner of the house.
