Nadia's POV
Lunch was at a small Italian place in the West Village. No reservation, no private room, no corporate card. Julian paid cash.
We ordered pasta and sat across from each other like two people who had never shared a bed.
"This is awkward," I said.
"Yes."
"You picked a bad restaurant." "I picked a restaurant where no one knows me. There's a difference." He broke a piece of bread. "I didn't want to perform."
That surprised me enough to stop reaching for my water. "Tell me something I don't know about you," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"Six years. We were married for six years, and I could count on one hand the real conversations we had. So tell me something. Anything."
I thought about deflecting. Giving him something surface-level and calling it honesty. But I was too tired for ga
