Augustus fell silent.
He didn't argue. He turned toward the table, where our childhood photographs waited beside candles and untouched dessert.
He looked hurt. Somehow that was worse than anger.
"Should we finish dinner?" he asked.
"I don't think either of us has the appetite."
He nodded. "Then I'll drive you home."
I accepted. I was too tired for another dramatic departure.
The quartet had discreetly packed away their instruments. Victoria appeared to confirm that the arrangements were settled, and I thanked her before following Augustus downstairs.
In the Aston Martin, Shorebridge's lights blurred past my window.
I'd waited so long to hear Augustus say I love you. When he finally had, I couldn't say it back.
Not because I didn't care. Because I wasn't certain whether I loved the man beside me or the future I'd imagined with him—one where our differences complemented each other instead of becoming arguments.
"Juliette, about tonight—"
"Please. Not right now."
