The table was set for three.

You stared at the extra plate like it was a ticking bomb. Ella had insisted. “It’s just dinner, Mom,” she said. But nothing was just anything when it came to Dante Moretti.

He arrived at 7:00 sharp — not a second late, not a second early. He never was. Always moving like time belonged to him.

Black suit. Crisp collar. No tie, like he was daring you to think he’d softened.

You opened the door. No words. Just a flash of those storm-colored eyes — and then he looked past you, again, like he did yesterday.

Straight at her.

“Hi,” Ella said, arms crossed but curious. Brave. “You remembered.”

He gave her a slow nod. “Of course.”

No of course, sweetheart. No I wouldn’t miss it. Just… of course. But somehow, the silence said more.

You hated how tall she stood in front of him. How she mirrored his expression — calculating, calm, eyes too old for her age.

You hated that he looked proud.

Dinner was homemade — pasta, your signature. Not for him. For Ella. He knew that. Didn’t comment. But he ate.

Quietly. Mannered. Like a man trying not to destroy the house he once burned down.

“You cook like her,” Dante said, eyes flicking to Ella as he twirled a fork.

You glared. “Don’t romanticize it.”

He met your stare head-on. “I’m not.”

Ella looked between you both. “So… how do you two know each other again?”

Your stomach tightened. Before you could speak, Dante did.

“I loved your mother,” he said simply. No drama. No theatrics. Just truth, delivered like a death sentence.

Your fork clattered onto the plate.

Ella blinked. “Oh.”

You stood up, grabbed your glass, and moved to the kitchen — distance, control. You couldn’t breathe when he talked like that, like the years hadn’t happened, like the war hadn’t been fought.

But then you heard it.

Ella’s voice, soft. “Did she love you back?”

A pause.

Then Dante’s answer: “Enough to make me wish I’d stayed.”

You closed your eyes.

He left when Ella went upstairs.

He stood at the door, hands in his coat pockets, shadows cutting across his face. “She’s… incredible.”

“She’s mine,” you said sharply.

His mouth tightened. “I’d die for her.”

“You don’t get to say that.”

“I already have,” he said, stepping closer. “You think I didn’t know? That night I left — I had your name written across my chest like a brand. I walked away because staying would’ve made you a target. I chose the blood so it wouldn’t spill on you.”

You froze.

“I didn’t know about her,” he added. “But if I had…”

You interrupted, voice raw: “Would you have stayed?”

His silence was louder than a scream.

And that was your answer.

He stepped out the door, pausing only once. “She invited me for dinner next week.”

Your jaw clenched. “I didn’t.”

He smirked. Just slightly. “Doesn’t matter. She already made the place card.”

And then he was gone.