Room service arrives at seven.
I ordered everything I remembered from that first night—filet mignon, lobster tail, some ridiculously expensive wine I couldn't pronounce then and barely can now. The server sets it all up on the dining table by the windows, the Strip glittering below us like a promise the city can't keep.
Damien watches from across the room. Silent. Waiting.
"Sit," I tell him once we're alone.
He sits.
I take the chair across from him, the table a safe distance between us. Neutral territory. Except nothing about this room is neutral. Every surface holds a memory. Every corner whispers about who we used to be.
"Eat," I say.
"I'm not hungry."
"I don't care. Eat anyway." I cut into my steak. Force myself to take a bite even though my stomach's in knots. "You're going to need your strength for what comes after dinner."
That gets his attention. Fear flickers across his face, followed by something else. Something that looks almost like anticipation.
