Chapter 16
Two years after our broken engagement, Ottavia and I met for dinner.
Her request.
My choice.
No romance implied.
She looked almost the same.
That surprised me.
We expect internal change to alter faces.
Usually it doesn’t.
She asked whether I ever regretted ending things.
“Yes.”
Her eyes lifted.
I continued.
“Regret is not the same as thinking it was wrong.”
She nodded.
Good.
She told me Miriam now visited her apartment sometimes.
Callum had spoken to her twice.
Eulalie not since the café.
She respected that.
Then she said:
“I spent years becoming someone I thought a man like you could love.”
I looked at her.
“You never asked what I loved.”
She smiled sadly.
“I know.”
That was the tragedy.
She built toward an imaginary standard.
Pedigree.
Polish.
Distance from service.
Everything she thought matched Mafia wealth.
Meanwhile, the part of her I loved most had been the girl who noticed staff names, remembered birthdays, tipped too much, carried spare flats after long events.
Early Ottavia.
Before fear tightened everything.
Somewhere along the way, maintaining the image became more important than being the person.
We finished dinner.
No kiss.
No promise.
At the door, she said:
“If I’d told you Miriam cleaned houses on our first date?”
“I would have asked whether she still made that lemon cake you mentioned.”
Ottavia laughed.
Then cried.
Not much.
We left separately.
May you like
Some truths arrive too late to save a relationship.
They can still save the person who finally says them.
