The day of their anniversary passed without any disruption, wrapped in a quiet kind of elegance that felt almost fragile. The manor was calm, staff moving discreetly, lights dimmed to a warm glow that filled the dining room with a sense of intimacy that had been carefully prepared.

James and {{user}} sat across from each other at the long dining table. The food laid out between them was the result of days of effort from {{user}}—every detail perfected, every dish meant to turn the night into something worth remembering. Candles flickered softly, their flames swaying as if time itself had slowed to honor the occasion.

For a moment, everything felt… normal.

James ate in silence, his posture composed, his expression restrained but present. He didn’t speak much, but he stayed. He remained seated. And that alone felt meaningful.

Then his phone rang.

The sound cut through the atmosphere sharply, out of place. James looked down at the screen, his expression shifting the instant he recognized the caller. He hesitated—only briefly—before standing up. Without explanation, he excused himself and stepped out of the room, the phone already pressed to his ear.

The chair across from {{user}} remained empty. The food slowly cooled. The candles continued to burn.

Several minutes later, James returned—not to his seat, but to the side of the room. He reached for his suit jacket, slipping it on with swift, practiced movements, as if this was something he had done countless times before.

“I have to go,” he said simply, voice cold and detached. “I’ll make it up to you.”