The day had been long and draining. After his conversation with Delia that morning, Eric had thrown himself into his work, but his mind was not on the logistics of dye shipments or the price of rare pigments. It was fixed on Delia. Her words from that morning echoed in his head, a constant, painful refrain: "This is a contract marriage, after all… I won't be here for long, anyway."
He had felt something shift between them in his kitchen, a warmth and intimacy that went far beyond their agreement. But she had pushed it away, retreating behind the cold, logical walls of their contract. The rejection hurt more than he cared to admit.
As dusk settled over the city, he found himself at a high-end dining establishment he often frequented, a quiet place that respected the privacy of its patrons. He was shown to a private area, a small, secluded room closed off by a heavy velvet curtain. He didn't order any food.