My fingers tightened around my phone. The maître d’, Daniel, stood beside me, pale with fury.
“Ms. Vale,” he whispered, “I can have them removed.”
“No.” My voice sounded calm, even to me. “Reserve the table right next to theirs.”
Daniel blinked. “Right next to—”
“Yes. And bring the good champagne.”
He understood then. Everyone who worked at Aurelia understood something Evan and Clara had forgotten: this restaurant wasn’t just my favorite place. It was mine. Built from my grandmother’s recipes, my late father’s insurance money, and four years of my life. Evan told people he “helped launch it” because he once approved the font on a menu.
I stepped into the dining room.
Clara saw me first. Her face cracked, then hardened into a pretty little mask. Evan followed her gaze and froze with his wineglass halfway to his mouth.
I smiled.
“Funny,” I said, taking the table beside them. “I was told this room was booked for a business dinner.”
Evan recovered fast. “Maya. This isn’t what it looks like.”
“It looks like my sister is wearing the dress I paid for, sitting with my fiancé, in the restaurant I own.”
Clara lifted her chin. “You always loved drama.”
“And you always loved borrowing things you couldn’t afford.”
Her eyes flashed.
Evan leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Let’s not make a scene.”
I poured champagne slowly, letting the bubbles rise.
“Oh, Evan,” I said. “The scene started before I arrived.”
His smile faltered.
Because behind the vase between our tables, my phone was recording. And above us, every private room camera was working perfectly.
Clara should have been afraid. Instead, she became cruel.
“You know,” she said, smoothing the stolen dress over her knees, “maybe this is for the best. Evan needs someone exciting. Someone who doesn’t treat love like a quarterly report.”
Evan gave a soft laugh. “Maya’s practical. That’s all.”
