March 25, 2026.
We set the date.
Tomorrow.
Dinner at Damien’s house. Just the three of us.
We’d tell Mia then.
The plan was simple on paper: casual meal, wait until dessert, sit her down, start with “there’s someone,” ease into the truth.
In reality, it felt like walking to our own execution.
The day dragged.
I barely worked. Stared at my laptop, fingers hovering.
Damien texted updates from meetings.
Damien (11:03 a.m.): Can’t focus. Keep seeing her face.
Me (11:05 a.m.): Me too. We can back out.
Damien (11:07 a.m.): No. We’re doing this.
Me (11:08 a.m.): Okay.
Damien (11:09 a.m.): I love you.
Me (11:10 a.m.): I love you too.
I drove to his house at five—early, to help cook and calm nerves.
He opened the door looking wrecked—tie loosened, eyes tired.
Pulled me inside.
He
