Chapter 3:Dinner,Unscripted
495 Words
Ava tugged at her dress hem. Not too tight. Not too loose. Just… enough. Her fingers trembled—was it nerves? Excitement? Probably both.
She stared at her reflection. And muttered, “Okay, deep breath.”
Because tonight wasn’t just another chore. It was that dinner. The one where the contract was supposed to get real.
Her phone buzzed.
2000547674 that is the restaurant. Zoom in tonight, 7 p.m. sharp. D.
No emojis. No warming words. Just firm facts, like he was assigning a mission.
She took a breath. “Mission accepted,” she whispered back, in her head.
Car ride there was mute. Just city lights and potential disasters swirling in her mind.
What if I say something dumb?
What if he stares at me like I’m ridiculous?
They slid into the booth. Candlelight flickered. Too romantic but not in a good way.
“Wine?” Damien asked, suddenly?
She paused. Is this part of the act?
“Sure,” she said. “Just… whatever you’re having.”
He ordered red. Deep, dark. “Cabernet,” she overheard the waiter say.
She touched the menu once, but then abandoned it. Words felt unnecessary.
Conversation held at the surface safe. Business. Mundane.
But then:
“I’ve been thinking about our… situation,” he said.
Her heart jerked. Situation? Was that what the contract meant to him now?
“Yeah?” she replied softly, twisting the napkin in her lap.
“I don’t want this to feel… transactional.” He sounded unsure, almost human.
Transaction. There’s that word. She laughed, quiet, bitter. “It already does.”
He leaned back. Took a sip. “Does it? Or do you think it does?”
A chase now. Subtle.
Am I supposed to explain how I feel? Write an essay?
No.
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He didn’t push. Just nodded. And for a second, the no-man’s land between them felt smaller.
She found her voice. “You know what scares me? That you might actually forget it’s fake. And then what?”
He stared at her, eyes unreadable. “Then it won’t be fake.”
Then silence again. A charged silence.
Their food arrived. Barely touched. Neither hungry.
She caught his gaze. “Why dinner anyway?”
He chose his words. Carefully.
“Because it felt… appropriate. We needed context.”
Context. Right.
She scoffed. “Romantic context?”
He didn’t flinch. “Real context.”
They ate. Slowly. Words fewer, weight heavier.
On the ride home, she could hear her own breathing in the quiet cabin.
At her door, he turned to her. “Goodnight, Ava.”
She noticed the “good” in it. For the first time, it didn’t feel weird.
“Night,” she whispered back.
Door closed. She swayed for a second, pressed against it. Damn.
She pulled deep into herself.
“I don’t know what happened tonight,” she muttered to the empty hallway.
“But something did.”
- Writer
