Chapter Thirty-Five: The Gilded Evening
Leaving the hospital felt like an escape from a pressure chamber. The cool evening air was a balm against her flushed skin as she hailed a cab. She gave the address of her apartment, her mind a jumble of conflicting signals: the lingering humiliation of asking for a hall pass, the phantom warmth of Aris's hand on her arm, and the looming, dutiful reality of dinner with Richard.
In her apartment, she moved with a focused, almost ritualistic precision. She showered, washing away the scent of antiseptic and anxiety. She stood before her closet, her hand drifting past the sensible work skirts and blouses, past the few casual weekend things. It landed on a dress she had bought on a rare, frivolous impulse months ago—a deep emerald silk, the color of a forest at twilight. It was simple in cut, but the fabric was liquid, draping in a way that hinted at curves without clinging. It was the dress of a woman who was confident in her beauty, not a girl playing dress-up.
She laid it on the bed and turned to the mirror. For a long moment, she just looked at herself. The frantic intern was gone. The harried woman begging for time off was gone. She saw what she loved.
Her eyes. Large, a warm, deep brown that could look almost black in certain lights, fringed with thick, dark lashes. They were her best feature, windows to a soul that felt too loud, too full of storms and stories. Above them, her eyebrows—strong, naturally arched, a frame that gave her face character and definition. She never plucked them into submission. She liked their boldness.
She touched her cheekbone, then ran her fingers through her hair. It was her pride—thick, straight, and dark as polished mahogany, falling in a heavy, smooth curtain past her shoulders. It had been her one vanity she'd never sacrificed, even during the most studious, penitent years.
Richard is lucky, she thought, not with arrogance, but with a quiet, resurgent sense of her own worth. He was getting a loyal partner. A doctor. A woman who had rebuilt herself from shattered pieces into something whole and capable. And yes, a beautiful one. The thought was a small flame, warming the cold spot his "permission" had left inside her.
She did her makeup with a light hand—a touch of mascara to accentuate her lashes, a hint of liner to define her eyes, a sheer berry stain on her lips. She left her eyebrows alone. She left her hair down, a dark, sleek waterfall against the emerald silk.
When she looked in the mirror again, she didn't see Dr. Snow, the anxious intern. She saw Amaya. And she looked… formidable.
The taxi dropped her at Le Bernardin. The restaurant was a temple of understated luxury—hushed tones, soft lighting, the gentle clink of crystal. Richard was already at the table, and as she approached, she saw the exact moment he registered her.
His eyes, usually focused on a phone screen or the middle distance of his own thoughts, widened. A slow, appreciative smile spread across his face. At thirty-two, Richard had matured into his handsomeness. His blond hair was expertly styled, his features classically clean-cut and strong. He wore a suit that cost more than her monthly rent, and he wore it with the easy entitlement of a man who had never doubted his place in the world. He stood as she reached the table.
"Amaya," he said, his voice low. He took her hand, not for a handshake, but to hold it, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "You look… stunning. Truly."
"Thank you," she said, extracting her hand gently to sit down. The waiter appeared with silent efficiency, pouring champagne. Richard ordered for them both—oysters, the Dover sole, a bottle of white Burgundy he described to the sommelier with casual expertise.
Once they were alone, he leaned forward, his gaze intense. "I have to say, the city air agrees with you. Or is it finally being done with all that grueling intern work?" He made a dismissive gesture. "You've more than paid your dues, you know. Once we're married, there's no need to work such punishing hours. You could consult. Have a practice a few days a week. Focus on the things that matter."
The things that matter. She wondered if he'd define them. Charity galas. Networking dinners. Decorating their future investment-property homes.
"I enjoy the work, Richard," she said, taking a sip of the crisp, cold champagne. "It's challenging, but it's what I trained for. We had a fascinating case today, actually. A young woman with what initially presented as severe social phobia, but the assessment is pointing toward a previously undiagnosed autoimmune disorder that's causing psychiatric symptoms. It's a perfect example of the mind-body link."
Richard listened, his head tilted, a polite smile on his lips. She could see the exact moment the medical terminology lost him. His eyes stayed on her face, but they glazed slightly, focusing on the movement of her lips, the fall of her hair, not the content of her words.
"Fascinating," he echoed when she paused. "It's impressive, really, how you keep all that straight. The human brain… a complex machine." He reached for his wine. "Speaking of complex machines, we're finalizing the acquisition of that tech startup I told you about. The due diligence was a nightmare—their data security was a sieve—but the potential for integrating their AI into our supply chain logistics is extraordinary. We're talking about a twenty percent efficiency gain, minimum."
He launched into a detailed explanation of market synergies and leveraged buyouts. Amaya nodded in the right places, asking a question here and there, playing the part of the attentive, intelligent partner. She understood the broad strokes; she was far from unintelligent. But his world of arbitrage and vertical integration felt as alien to her as psychopharmacology did to him. They were two experts in fields that operated in different dimensions.
Yet, there was a comfort in it. This was the contract. This was the life she had signed up for. A beautiful, parallel existence where they admired each other's worlds from a respectful distance.
"You're quiet tonight," Richard observed, halfway through the main course. "More than usual. Is everything alright at the hospital? You said you had to get permission to leave."
The question was casual, but it landed with weight. She set her fork down. "It's fine. Standard intern protocol. My supervising consultant is just… very rigorous."
"Rigorous," Richard repeated, slicing into his fish. "I hope he's not giving you a hard time. You don't need that stress. I could make a call, you know. I know the chairman of the hospital board. We play golf."
"No!" The word came out sharper than she intended. She softened her tone. "No, thank you, Richard. That's not necessary. I need to do this on my own merits."
He looked at her, a flicker of something—annoyance? paternalistic concern?—in his blue eyes. "Always so independent. It's one of the things I admire about you." He said it like it was a charming, if slightly inconvenient, character trait. "But remember, we're a team. Your burdens are mine."
Are they? she thought. Would you take on the burden of my history? Of the ghost in the hospital hallway? She knew the answer. Richard's world was about acquiring assets and minimizing liabilities. Her past, her complicated feelings, would be filed under the latter.
"Tell me more about the board chairman," she said, redirecting. "Is he as ruthless at golf as he is in the boardroom?"
Richard brightened, easily steered back to familiar territory. He told an amusing story about a missed putt and a seven-figure deal. Amaya laughed in the right places, her mind drifting.
She watched him as he spoke, his hands moving gracefully, his confidence a palpable force. He was handsome, successful, and he wanted her. By any objective measure, she was lucky. This was security. This was the "good life" her parents had wanted for her. So why did it feel like she was watching the evening through a thick pane of glass?
The dessert menu came. Richard suggested the chocolate soufflé. "We'll share," he said, a glint in his eye. It was a gesture she knew was meant to be intimate.
As they waited for the soufflé, the conversation lulled. The soft sounds of the restaurant wrapped around them—murmured conversations, the distant chime of cutlery. Richard reached across the table again, this time covering her hand with his. His palm was warm, dry. He looked at her, his expression softening into something genuinely affectionate.
"You know," he said, his voice dropping, "when I saw you walk in tonight… I thought to myself, 'I am the luckiest man in this room.' Probably in this city." He squeezed her hand. "Five years is a long time to wait, Amaya. But you've been worth it. You've grown into such an extraordinary woman. I can't wait to make you my wife."
The words were perfect. They were the words she was supposed to want to hear. They were a vow, a promise, a validation. They should have filled the hollow space.
Instead, they rang with a faint, tinny echo. She looked down at their joined hands, at the diamond that caught the candlelight and splintered it into a dozen cold, bright shards. She thought of another hand, steadying her on a linoleum floor. A touch that had lasted two seconds and sent a current through her that this sustained, deliberate contact did not.
She made herself smile. She made her eyes warm. "Thank you, Richard," she said, and her voice was perfectly, terribly calm. "That means a lot."
The soufflé arrived, a cloud of dark chocolate perfection. They shared it, the sweetness rich and cloying on her tongue. Richard talked about looking at apartments again, this time with a view to buying. He mentioned neighborhoods, square footage, proximity to his office and her future practice.
She agreed. She commented. She played her part flawlessly.
But inside, the quiet, cold voice of truth was growing louder. It whispered that the most beautiful dress couldn't disguise a borrowed skin. That the most loyal fiancé couldn't touch the part of her that still, stubbornly, belonged to a storm she had run from years ago. And that the permission she had fought so hard for tonight felt less like a privilege and more like a sentence to a life of exquisite, gilded pretending.