REBECCA’S POV
We were at dinner on a Friday evening when Daniel asked the question.
Not the question I had been waiting for, not the one that would require me to lie or to construct a careful version of the truth. A different question. A more specific one.
We were at a restaurant in the West Village, the kind of place with good light and tables far enough apart that two people could speak without being heard by the tables beside them. He had suggested it.
I had agreed. I had been spending enough time with Daniel Ashworth across the past weeks that saying yes to dinner had stopped feeling like a decision and had become simply what happened.
We had ordered. The wine had arrived. We were halfway through the main course when he set down his fork and looked at me directly.
“Tell me about
