Chapter 5: Dinner and Doubts
The East Village hummed with evening energy, its streets alive with neon signs, laughter spilling from bars, and the clatter of delivery bikes. Elena Harper navigated the crowded sidewalk, her black ankle boots clicking against the pavement, her heart a drumbeat of anticipation and dread. The Smith, a bustling brasserie with exposed brick and warm lighting, loomed ahead, its windows reflecting the city's restless pulse. She'd chosen it for its casual vibe—no Weston-level opulence, no paparazzi lurking—but the tabloid photo from yesterday still gnawed at her, a grainy image of Alexander and Victoria Lang laughing over coffee, timestamped hours before his plea in Central Park.
Elena adjusted her scarf, a soft gray cashmere that matched her tailored coat, and checked her phone: 6:58 p.m. She was early, a habit born of her surgical precision, but it gave her a moment to steady herself. Alexander's note—I can't lose you—had been a lifeline, but the photo was a warning. Was he genuine, or was this another Weston game, a performance to keep her in the fold? Tonight, she'd find out.
Inside, The Smith buzzed with chatter, the air thick with the scent of roasted garlic and craft beer. The hostess led her to a corner table by the window, private enough for conversation but public enough to keep things neutral. Elena slid into the booth, her back to the wall, and ordered a glass of Pinot Noir to calm her nerves. Her phone sat face-down on the table, silent since her text to Alexander confirming the time. No reply, no confirmation—just like him to leave her waiting.
At 7:02, the door swung open, and there he was. Alexander Weston moved through the restaurant like he owned it, his presence drawing glances from nearby tables. He'd traded yesterday's casual sweater for a tailored blazer over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a nod to the restaurant's relaxed vibe. His dark hair caught the light, and his stormy eyes found hers instantly, a flicker of relief crossing his face as he approached.
"Elena," he said, sliding into the booth across from her. "You look… good."
She raised an eyebrow, her wineglass pausing mid-sip. "You're late."
"Two minutes," he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Traffic on the FDR. I'm here now."
She set the glass down, her fingers steady despite the storm in her chest. "You're here. So, talk. You said you wanted to make this right. Start with the truth."
He leaned back, his gaze never leaving hers, as if weighing how much to reveal. The waiter interrupted, dropping off menus and rattling off specials, but Alexander waved him off politely, ordering a bourbon neat without breaking eye contact. "The truth," he said once they were alone, "is that I've been a coward. I thought keeping you at a distance would keep you safe from my world—the deals, the pressure, the expectations. But I was wrong, and I'm sorry."
Elena's jaw tightened, the tabloid photo flashing in her mind. "Sorry doesn't explain why you were laughing with Victoria Lang yesterday, hours before you showed up at my office with that letter. Business, you said. Looked pretty cozy for a merger meeting."
His eyes darkened, not with anger but something closer to frustration. "You saw the photo."
"Everyone saw the photo," she snapped, her voice low to avoid drawing attention. "It's all over the internet, Alex. 'Weston Heir Rekindles Old Flame.' Care to explain that?"
He pulled out his phone, scrolling briefly before sliding it across the table. The screen showed an email thread, timestamped yesterday afternoon, between him and his father, Richard Weston. The subject line read: Lang Merger Terms. The message detailed a tense negotiation, with Victoria's name mentioned as a liaison for her family's company. "That's what the lunch was," he said, his voice steady. "Her father's trying to strong-arm us into unfavorable terms. We met to hash it out. The laughter? She made a bad joke about her dad's golf game. That's it."
Elena scanned the email, the corporate jargon blurring as her mind raced. It checked out, but it didn't erase the sting of seeing them together, the ease in their body language. "You could've told me," she said, sliding the phone back. "Instead, I'm finding out from gossip sites. That's not how a marriage works, Alex."
"I know." He leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table, close enough that she could see the faint scar on his knuckle from a childhood fall. "I've been handling this wrong—handling us wrong. I'm not good at this, Elena. The feelings, the talking. But I want to be. For you."
Her heart twisted, caught between hope and skepticism. She wanted to believe him, wanted to reach across the table and bridge the gap, but three years of silence had built a wall she wasn't sure she could dismantle. "Then why now?" she asked, her voice softer but no less firm. "Why fight for this after I walked away?"
He hesitated, his bourbon untouched, his eyes searching hers. "Because losing you woke me up. I've been sleepwalking through this marriage, thinking I could keep you safe by keeping you out. But when you left, when I saw those papers…" He trailed off, his voice catching. "It was like the world stopped. I can't imagine my life without you, Elena. I don't want to."
The words hit like a wave, warm and overwhelming, but she held herself steady, her surgeon's hands betraying none of the tremor in her heart. "That's a lot to hear, Alex. But words aren't enough. I need actions. I need to know you're in this, not just chasing a feeling because I'm slipping away."
He nodded, his expression resolute. "I get that. So, let's start here. Dinner, tonight, just us. No phones, no Westons, no mergers. Tell me what you need, and I'll do it."
She studied him, searching for the lie, the deflection, but all she saw was a man trying—really trying—for the first time in years. "Okay," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "Let's try this. But if you're not all in, Alex, I'm out. For good."
"Deal," he said, and for the first time that night, his smile reached his eyes.
The dinner unfolded slowly, a dance of cautious reconnection. They ordered—grilled salmon for her, steak for him—and the conversation shifted to safer ground: her latest surgery, a tricky case involving a toddler's congenital cataract; his recent trip to Chicago for a hotel acquisition. It was small talk, but it felt different, laced with an undercurrent of effort. He asked questions, listened, laughed at her story about a patient who'd proposed to her with a paper ring mid-exam. She caught herself smiling, the tension easing, if only slightly.
But the tabloid photo lingered, a shadow at the edge of her thoughts. Halfway through the meal, she set her fork down, her resolve hardening. "Alex, I need to ask you something, and I need the truth. No evasions."
He paused, his knife hovering over his steak, his eyes meeting hers. "Anything."
"Victoria," she said, the name a weight on her tongue. "You say it's business, but there's history there. I know it. Everyone knows it. Is there anything—anything at all—you're not telling me?"
He set his knife down, his expression serious. "Victoria and I dated in high school, Elena. You know that. We were kids, reckless and stupid. It ended before college, before you and I… before everything. She's part of my past, but you're my present. My future, if you'll let me."
The sincerity in his voice was a balm, but it didn't erase the years of doubt. "Then why keep her close?" Elena pressed. "Why let her back into your life, even for business?"
He sighed, leaning back in his booth. "Because my father trusts her family, and the merger's critical. Lang Industries controls key properties we need for a new development. I didn't choose her—she's just the messenger. But I should've been upfront with you. I see that now."
Elena nodded, processing. It made sense, but sense didn't soothe the ache of seeing them together, the ease of their laughter. "I need transparency, Alex. No more secrets, no more surprises in the tabloids. If we're doing this, it's all or nothing."
"Agreed," he said, his voice firm. "No more secrets. Starting now."
The rest of the dinner passed in a tentative truce, the conversation lighter but laced with unspoken promises. He paid the bill, insisting despite her protest, and they stepped out into the cool night air, the East Village pulsing around them. He offered to walk her to the subway, but she shook her head, needing space to think.
"I'll text you," she said, pausing on the sidewalk. "This was… a start. But we've got a long way to go."
He nodded, his hands in his pockets, his eyes soft in the streetlight's glow. "I'm not going anywhere, Elena. Take all the time you need."
She turned away, her heart a tangle of hope and fear, and headed toward the subway. The city swallowed her steps, but for the first time in days, she felt a flicker of possibility, fragile but real.
Back at Marisol's, Elena found her friend sprawled on the couch, a glass of wine in hand, a reality show blaring. "Well?" Marisol demanded, muting the TV. "How'd it go? Did he grovel enough?"
Elena laughed, dropping her bag by the door. "He didn't grovel, but he tried. Explained the Victoria thing—business, not romance. Showed me emails to prove it."
Marisol raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "And you believe him?"
"I want to," Elena admitted, sinking onto the couch. "He was… different tonight. Present. Like he actually saw me. But I'm not jumping back in, Marisol. Not yet."
"Good girl," Marisol said, clinking her glass against Elena's water bottle. "Keep him on his toes. You deserve someone who fights for you, not just shows up when you're halfway out the door."
Elena nodded, but her thoughts were elsewhere, replaying Alexander's words, his smile, the way his hand had almost reached for hers. She pulled out her phone, opening the tabloid article again, the photo of him and Victoria staring back. Business or not, it hurt. But tonight, for the first time, she felt like she had a choice—to trust, to walk away, or to find a path somewhere in between.
As she lay in bed later, Marisol's snores echoing from the next room, Elena stared at the ceiling, Alexander's note tucked under her pillow. Tomorrow was another day, another chance to decide. But for now, she let herself hope, just a little, that the man she'd loved might still be worth fighting for.