When we arrived at the restaurant, my stomach twisted. The steakhouse—one I had once thought was ours—had always belonged to him and Maria. Each familiar detail, every shadowed corner, now reflected the truth: everything I had believed about us was an illusion.
As we stepped into the restaurant, the scent of smoke and searing meat filled the air, thick and heavy. One of the senior waiters recognized us instantly and inclined his head with practiced respect.
“Don Corell. Mrs. Corell,” he greeted smoothly. “It’s been quite some time.”
I felt Maria tense beside Zaldy. Without hesitation, she leaned into him, slipping her arm through his with deliberate intimacy, staking her claim without a word. His body language shifted instantly—relaxed, receptive, familiar in a way that made my stomach tighten. The message was unmistakable. She wasn’t hiding anything.
Something sharp twisted in my chest, raw and instinctive—not jealousy alone, but the quiet fury of being erased.
The waiter hesitated, sensing the undercurrent, but Zaldy didn’t spare me a glance.
“Table for four,” he said calmly, the tone of a Don used to being obeyed.