The man didn’t answer right away. He studied me for several long seconds, and there was a tenderness in his gaze that felt older.
Then he quietly said it.
“I’m the reason your husband divorced you.”
Every muscle in my body locked. My hand froze on the stem of the water glass, then found the table’s edge as I pushed my chair back and half rose, my eyes darting toward the maître d’s station across the room.
“Please,” he said quickly, both hands lifting, palms open above the linen. “One minute. Just one. Then I’ll leave if you want me to. I won’t make a scene, and I won’t follow you, Eleanor.”
It was the quiet in his voice that did it—not pleading, just certainty.
I lowered myself back into the chair, but I didn’t let go of the table.
