The maître d' slipped out of the private dining room, and silence rushed in like a tide. The door closed with a whisper, leaving Sharon and Arga alone beneath the golden glow of the chandelier.
Sharon did not speak. She let the silence breathe. It was the first move in her carefully choreographed dance: to remind Arga that words belonged to the impatient, while power belonged to the still.
The private room was designed to impress. Crystal chandeliers dangled overhead, casting fractured rainbows over velvet drapes. The table stretched long and white, set with silverware that gleamed like surgical instruments. The wine glasses caught the light, their fragile curves glowing faintly, almost like halos.
But Sharon did not see beauty in the details. She saw weapons. She saw stagecraft.
The velvet drapes — perfect for concealing shadows, for suggesting secrets. The chandelier — a spotlight, placing her at the center of attention whether she wished it or not. The tablecloth — pure, unblemished white, waiting for a spill, a stain, a mark of weakness.
Even the glasses, fragile and delicate, reminded her of herself once. A girl who could shatter at the touch of ridicule. But now, she thought, if anyone were to break tonight, it would not be her.
Across the table, Arga shifted slightly, folding his hands together on the linen. His suit was immaculate — navy wool with silver threads that caught the light when he moved. His hair was styled, his cufflinks gleamed. To the world, he was the image of control. But Sharon noticed the tension in his shoulders, the faint tightening of his jaw when silence stretched too long.
Good, she thought. Let him feel the weight of waiting.
***
The waiter entered softly, wheeling a cart. He poured wine with delicate precision, filling Arga's glass first, then Sharon's. Sharon lifted hers but did not drink. She held it up to the light, watching the crimson swirl like blood caught in crystal.
"An excellent vintage, madam," the waiter murmured.
"Perhaps," Sharon replied coolly, "but some wines improve only after years of pressure. They need time. Darkness. Silence. Otherwise, they're bitter."
Her words were directed at no one, but Arga's brow tightened almost imperceptibly. Sharon smiled inwardly. Even the smallest metaphor could plant unease.
When the waiter left, the silence returned. Sharon finally placed her glass back on the table, the stem clicking against the surface.
"Do you like the restaurant?" Arga asked at last, his voice careful.
Sharon tilted her head, her eyes sweeping the gilded details of the room. "It's… dramatic," she said softly. "Like a stage."
"A stage?"
"Yes." Her eyes flicked back to him, sharp, deliberate. "Everything is arranged. Every glass, every knife, every candle. All waiting for the performance to begin."
Arga gave a faint smile, but his hands flexed slightly against the tablecloth. He wasn't sure if she meant the room — or him.
***
The first course arrived: an amuse-bouche of foie gras served on porcelain spoons, glistening under the light. The waiter presented it like an offering, then slipped away again, leaving them to their solitude.
Sharon did not reach for her spoon. Instead, she studied Arga as he lifted his, his movements practiced, refined. She wondered if he noticed how every gesture of his was being weighed, dissected.
Arga chewed slowly, then set the spoon down. "It's good," he said.
Sharon finally picked up hers, letting the silence stretch before she placed the foie gras on her tongue. She chewed deliberately, her expression unreadable. When she swallowed, she dabbed her lips with the napkin before answering.
"It tastes of indulgence," she murmured. "Rich. Smooth. But it lingers in the throat, doesn't it? Like something that refuses to be forgotten."
Arga froze for just a second — the tiniest flicker of recognition in his eyes. He knew she wasn't talking about the food.
***
The room seemed smaller now, as if the velvet walls were drawing closer. The chandelier's light gleamed hotter, harsher. Arga sipped his wine, perhaps to steady himself. Sharon kept her hands folded neatly in her lap, letting him see her stillness, her composure.
"Sharon," he began slowly, "I—"
But she raised her hand slightly, palm outward, stopping him without a word. The gesture was gentle but commanding.
"Not yet," she said. "The performance hasn't reached that scene."
Arga blinked, caught between confusion and frustration. For a man accustomed to dictating tempo — in business meetings, in boardrooms, in life — this inversion unsettled him. Sharon saw it. She savored it.
***
The second course arrived: oysters on ice, glistening beneath lemon wedges. Again, the waiter presented them with a flourish before retreating, leaving the two alone in their silence.
Arga reached for one, squeezing lemon over the shell, swallowing it in a practiced motion. Sharon watched, then lifted her own oyster delicately. She tilted the shell but paused before tasting it.
"Do you know why oysters are considered an aphrodisiac?" she asked suddenly.
Arga hesitated, the question unexpected. "…Because of their taste? Their rarity?"
Sharon shook her head slightly, her lips curving. "Because they're born from irritation. A grain of sand, an intruder, forces the shell to protect itself. Layer by layer, it builds around the wound until something beautiful forms." She finally swallowed the oyster, setting the shell down with deliberate care. "Beauty, from pain. That's the truth of oysters."
Her eyes met his across the table, unflinching.
Arga looked down briefly at his glass, then back at her. "And you believe pain creates beauty?"
Sharon's smile deepened. "I know it does."
The words hung between them like a blade suspended on a thread.
***
As the courses progressed — duck with orange glaze, risotto laced with truffle, lamb so tender it melted beneath the knife — Sharon guided the dinner like a conductor. She spoke little, but every word was chosen, every silence sculpted.
Arga tried to steer conversation, but Sharon allowed him no foothold. When he asked about her latest film, she replied with one-line answers, each tinged with double meanings. When he tried to reminisce about the old neighborhood, she let silence smother him until he faltered.
All the wthe hile, Sharon studied him. His hands fidgeted more than before. His eyes flickered, searching hers for permission, forgiveness, something. He was a man unaccustomed to being on the defensive, yet here he was, unraveling one stitch at a time.
***
By dessert — a delicate mille-feuille dusted with powdered sugar — the tension had grown almost unbearable. Arga finally set down his fork and leaned back, exhaling.
"Sharon," he said quietly. "This isn't just dinner for me. Youunravelling, don't you?"
Sharon folded her napkin, her expression serene. She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table, her chin lightly on her folded hands.
"Of course," she said. "Every stage has its purpose. Every actor has their role."
Her voice was silk, but her eyes were steel.
Arga swallowed. For the first time in years, he felt small.
***
The chandelier hummed faintly overhead, its crystals swaying with the draft of the air vents. Sharon sat back, finishing her wine in one slow sip, the crimson liquid staining her lips like a promise.
The dinner was not yet over. But the stage had been set exactly as she wished.
And Arga Bridgman was already trapped inside her script.