Velaris – Le Détour, 8:14 PM
Private Room, Second Floor
Candlelight flickered in tall hurricane glass votives along the wall. The room was quiet—high ceilings, velvet drapes, and only one table set near the window overlooking the narrow, rain-dampened street below.
Edgar sat at the head, wine untouched.
Celia Thornevale, six years younger and far more expressive, swirled her glass with casual grace.
"You hate this place," she said, watching him. "I can see it in your shoulders."
"I don't hate it," Edgar replied, tone flat.
"You hate being seen in it," she corrected, smiling. "Too soft. Too romantic. God forbid a corner of you turns human."
He didn't rise to the bait.
She sighed. "Well, I like it. And you promised me one dinner per fiscal quarter without business, bodyguards, or boardrooms. So here we are. Suffer."
Edgar finally looked up at her.
"You've become difficult."
"I was born difficult. You just forgot because you haven't looked me in the eyes in four months."
A silence passed. Not cold—just worn-in. Familiar.
He took a sip of wine, finally. Red. Dry.
Celia studied him carefully now.
"You're distracted."
"No."
"You're lying."
He didn't respond.
So she leaned in slightly. "Is it the Monaco project? Or is it something else?"
Another pause. Then:
"Someone," she added, quietly.
That made his jaw flex.
Celia tilted her head, reading it perfectly.
"So. Someone."
Still, Edgar said nothing.
She let the silence stretch—then eased back in her chair, setting her glass down gently.
"I'm not asking for gossip, Edgar. I know better. I just want you to ask yourself one thing."
He raised an eyebrow. Barely.
She folded her hands, her voice lowering.
"When was the last time you thought about someone long after they left the room?"
That landed.
More than she expected.
His expression didn't change. But his eyes—
His eyes drifted, just slightly, toward the window. The reflection there. The city.
A memory he couldn't name.
A woman in grey.
A moment in silence.
Celia saw it.
She didn't press.
Just reached out, touched his knuckles lightly once.
"You don't always have to armor up. Not with me."
Edgar gave a low exhale. Not a sigh. Just breath.
"You're still annoying," he said.
Celia smiled. "And you're still secretly sentimental. I'll leave the bill with you."
She rose, kissed his cheek—something no one else had done in over a decade—and left him alone in the candlelight.
Edgar didn't call for the check right away.
He just sat there.
Watching the reflection of himself in the window,
And thinking of a woman he had not touched,
had not kissed,
had not trusted—
But couldn't forget.