The candles flickered.
Not gently.
Uneven.
Like the air between them wasn't still enough to hold a steady flame.
The food sat untouched between them.
Perfect.
Carefully arranged.
Still warm.
Pointless.
⸻
Amelia didn't breathe the same way anymore.
Not slow.
Not steady.
Every inhale felt sharper now.
Like her body had already decided something was wrong—
before she had fully caught up to it.
⸻
"Why do you think you can decide what I wear?"
⸻
Her voice came out tight.
Controlled—
but only just.
There was something under it.
Not just anger.
Something more fragile.
Something she was forcing down.
⸻
"Sending clothes to me like I don't get a say?"
⸻
A step forward.
Small—
but intentional.
⸻
"Like I'm just supposed to take it and move on?"
⸻
Her eyes locked on his.
She didn't blink.
Didn't soften it.
⸻
"Who do you think you are?"
⸻
Silence.
⸻
He didn't answer.
⸻
Didn't even shift.
⸻
That calm—
⸻
It made something in her chest snap.
Not loudly.
Not visibly.
But enough.
⸻
"No, don't just sit there," she cut in, sharper now, the words coming faster, "because this didn't start with the dress."
⸻
Her hand moved slightly—
not pointing—
but close.
Like she was holding herself back from doing it.
⸻
"You bought the company first."
⸻
A pause.
The weight of that sat differently.
⸻
"The one I work for."
⸻
Her voice tightened.
Just slightly.
But it was there.
⸻
"You didn't say anything. You didn't even give me a chance to react. You just decided."
⸻
Nothing.
⸻
Of course.
⸻
"And then the hospital bills."
⸻
That hit deeper.
It showed.
Even if she didn't want it to.
⸻
Her jaw clenched.
A flicker of something crossed her face—
gone just as quickly.
⸻
"How did you even know about that?"
⸻
Silence.
⸻
Her pulse picked up.
She could feel it now—
in her throat.
In her wrists.
⸻
"How do you know where I am?"
⸻
A step closer now.
Closer than before.
Closer than necessary.
⸻
"Are you following me?"
⸻
The question came out sharper.
More direct.
Less controlled.
⸻
"Or is that just another thing you've already handled without telling me?"
⸻
Still nothing.
⸻
That was worse.
Far worse.
⸻
Because if he argued—
she could fight it.
⸻
If he denied it—
she could push back.
⸻
But this—
this quiet—
⸻
It made everything feel already decided.
⸻
"You don't get to do that," she said, her voice tightening again, anger pushing through properly now, "you don't get to step into my life and start making decisions like I asked you to."
⸻
A breath.
Shallow.
⸻
"I didn't ask you."
⸻
Another.
⸻
"I didn't need you."
⸻
The words landed.
Harder this time.
Because she meant them.
Or needed to.
⸻
And she didn't soften them.
⸻
"You don't get to decide where I work."
⸻
A step closer.
Now there was barely space between them.
⸻
"You don't get to decide what I wear."
⸻
Another.
⸻
"You don't get to decide anything about me."
⸻
Silence.
⸻
Heavy.
⸻
Real.
⸻
And this time—
she held it.
Didn't look away.
Didn't fill it.
Didn't take it back.
⸻
For a moment—
nothing happened.
⸻
Then—
Marco moved.
⸻
Not abruptly.
Not aggressively.
⸻
But enough.
⸻
He stood.
⸻
Slow.
Measured.
⸻
The shift in height changed everything.
It always did.
⸻
Amelia didn't step back.
⸻
Didn't move.
Even when instinct told her to.
⸻
Even as he walked toward her.
⸻
One step.
Then another.
⸻
The glass was still in his hand.
Amber liquid catching the candlelight.
Steady.
Unaffected.
⸻
A cigar between his fingers.
Unlit.
Resting there like it belonged.
Like everything else in the room—
answered to him.
⸻
He stopped in front of her.
Close.
⸻
Too close.
⸻
The air shifted.
⸻
Not louder.
⸻
Tighter.
⸻
Amelia felt it—
the difference.
It pressed against her skin.
Sat in her lungs.
⸻
This wasn't distance anymore.
⸻
This was presence.
⸻
He looked down at her.
⸻
Not angry.
⸻
Not rushed.
⸻
Just—
there.
⸻
Deliberate.
⸻
Like everything else about him.
⸻
Her pulse picked up.
Faster now.
Less controlled.
But she didn't move.
⸻
Didn't look away.
⸻
Didn't give him that.
⸻
He lifted the glass slightly.
Not drinking.
Just holding it there.
Like time wasn't something he had to follow.
⸻
His gaze stayed on her face.
Tracing.
Taking in every shift.
Every reaction.
Every breath she didn't mean to show.
⸻
Still not speaking.
⸻
And somehow—
that was worse.
⸻
"You don't answer," she said, quieter now but no less sharp, "you just stand there like that fixes it."
⸻
The glass was still in his hand.
Amber catching the candlelight.
Unchanging.
⸻
He lifted the cigar slightly.
Brought it to his lips.
⸻
Lit it.
⸻
The flame flickered briefly between them—
just for a second—
then disappeared.
⸻
Smoke curled slowly into the air.
Thin.
Controlled.
⸻
His gaze never left her.
⸻
Not once.
⸻
Like nothing she had said had shaken him.
⸻
Like everything she had said—
had been expected.
⸻
Amelia's chest rose.
Faster.
More noticeable now.
⸻
But she held her ground.
⸻
He took a slow draw.
⸻
Then exhaled.
⸻
Deliberate.
⸻
Controlled.
⸻
Only then—
⸻
"I'll see you at dawn."
⸻
The words were quiet.
Flat.
Certain.
⸻
Her brows pulled together immediately.
The shift was instant.
⸻
"What?"
⸻
He didn't answer that.
⸻
Instead—
⸻
"I've had your things packed."
⸻
The statement landed clean.
Too clean.
⸻
No hesitation.
No explanation.
⸻
Just—
done.
⸻
Something in her chest dropped.
Hard.
Like the ground beneath her had shifted—
without warning.
⸻
"That's not—"
⸻
But he was already turning.
⸻
Not rushing.
Not looking back.
⸻
Like the conversation had ended—
because he had decided it had.