Chapter Thirty-Six: A Table for Three
The chocolate soufflé arrived, a perfect, trembling dome of darkness dusted with powdered sugar. Richard was explaining the intricacies of a new sustainable packaging initiative his firm was championing. Amaya nodded, spooning a small bite, the rich flavor a stark contrast to the growing emptiness inside her. The warm, dimly lit room, the murmur of civilized conversation, the impeccable service—it was a diorama of the life awaiting her. A beautiful, tasteful cage.
She was about to ask a question about recyclable polymers when a flicker of movement at the periphery of her vision snagged her attention. A waiter was leading a new party to a table two over from theirs, partially obscured by a decorative potted fern.
The host stepped aside.
And her world tilted.
It was Aris.
He was not in scrubs or a white coat. He wore a simple, well-tailored grey sweater and dark trousers. He looked… less severe. But it wasn't his attire that stopped her heart. It was the small, solemn figure he guided gently by the shoulder.
A boy.
He looked to be about four or five, with a mop of dark, unruly hair that was a perfect miniature of Aris's own. He had the same sharp, serious bone structure, the same pale skin. But his eyes, as he scanned the restaurant with a quiet, watchful intensity, were a deep, velvety brown. His mother's eyes, Amaya thought with a pang that felt like a shard of glass twisting in her chest. He was dressed neatly in a small button-down shirt and corduroys, but he held himself with a stillness that was unnatural for a child, as if conserving energy for some internal, monumental task.
And on Aris's left hand, resting lightly on the boy's shoulder as he helped him into the chair… there was no ring. No band of gold or platinum. Nothing. The gossip echoed: No one's ever seen a wife… sole custody.
But the evidence before her was more damning than any ring. He had a child. A son who was the mirror image of him, bearing the ghost of another woman in his eyes. He had created a family with someone. Loved someone. Built a life with someone in the years after he had looked at her, tear-streaked and desperate in a wedding dress, and told her she was a delusion.
He didn't marry me five years ago when I begged, but he married someone else? The thought was a fresh, agonizing wound. Or perhaps he hadn't married at all. Perhaps it had been a fleeting, passionate mistake—the kind of human error he so despised—that had resulted in this beautiful, silent boy. Either scenario was a verdict on her. She had not been worth the complication. This child was.
She realized she had stopped breathing. The spoon was frozen halfway to her mouth. Richard was saying something about carbon offsets.
"Amy? Are you alright? You've gone pale." Richard's voice cut through the roaring in her ears.
She forced her gaze away, back to his concerned face. "I'm fine. Just… a bit warm. The wine, maybe." She took a sip of water, her hand trembling slightly. Don't look. Don't look. But it was like trying not to look at a car crash. Her eyes were dragged back.
Aris had settled the boy—Rihan, she would learn—and was studying the menu, his head bent low to speak to him softly. He wasn't reading it to him; he seemed to be explaining the options in a quiet, measured tone. The boy listened, his large brown eyes fixed on his father's face, nodding occasionally. There was a profound intimacy in the scene, a world of understanding contained in their quiet bubble. Aris's usual impenetrable armor was down. Here, he was just a father, patient, focused entirely on his son.
Then, as if sensing the weight of a stare, Aris's gaze lifted. It swept past the fern, past the other diners, and locked directly with hers.
Time stopped. The restaurant noise faded to a distant hum. In his hazel eyes, she saw a rapid cascade of emotions—shock, first and foremost, sharp and unwelcome. Then a flash of something like irritation, as if her presence here was an inconvenient variable in a controlled experiment. And beneath it, just for a fraction of a second, a stark, unmasked vulnerability that made her breath catch. He was exposed here, in his most human role, and she was witnessing it.
He looked away first, his attention snapping back to his son as if she were a distracting glare. He said something to Rihan, his hand briefly covering the boy's smaller one on the table.
The rejection was absolute. More painful than any clinical criticism. He had let her see his heart, not for her, but for his child, and then had shut her out of the view.
"Amaya, seriously, what is it?" Richard's voice was firmer now, laced with impatience. He followed her line of sight, his eyes narrowing as he took in the man and the boy at the nearby table. "Do you know them?"
"That's… my supervising consultant. Dr. Rowon," she managed to say, her voice thin.
Richard's posture straightened, his business-assessment mode clicking into place. "The rigorous one? Interesting." He studied Aris with a detached curiosity. "He's younger than I expected. And he has a child. That explains the… intensity, I suppose."
He's married, Richard didn't say, but the assumption hung in the air between them, a shield against any unease he might have sensed in her.
Amaya spent the rest of the meal in a state of high-alert paralysis. She ate without tasting, laughed at Richard's jokes without hearing them, all while her awareness was split, a part of her perpetually tuned to the quiet table two over. She saw Aris cut Rihan's food into meticulous, tiny pieces. She saw him patiently encourage a bite, his expression softening in a way she had never seen before. She saw the boy respond with slow, deliberate movements, his eyes often drifting to the floor or his own lap, retreating into himself. It was a silent ballet of care and quiet struggle.
Finally, the interminable dinner ended. Richard called for the check, making a satisfied sound as he signed it. "Shall we?" he said, standing and offering her his arm.
As they moved to leave, their path took them directly past Aris's table. Amaya's heart hammered against her ribs. She kept her eyes forward, hoping against hope to pass by unnoticed.
"Dr. Snow."
His voice. Low, calm, and utterly inescapable.
She froze, then turned. Richard stopped beside her, his expression politely inquisitive.
Aris had risen from his seat. Rihan was beside him, holding his father's hand, peeking out from behind his leg, those huge brown eyes taking her in with silent curiosity.
"Dr. Rowon," Amaya said, her professional mask slamming into place so hard it hurt. "Good evening."
"I wasn't aware Le Bernardin was a common haunt for hospital interns," he said, his tone dry, but his eyes were on Richard, assessing him with a single, sweeping glance that missed nothing—the expensive suit, the confident posture, the possessive way his hand rested on the small of Amaya's back.
"This is my fiancé, Richard Thorne," Amaya said quickly, the introduction feeling like a betrayal on multiple levels. "Richard, this is Dr. Aris Rowon, my senior supervising consultant."
Richard extended his hand, his politician's smile in place. "Dr. Rowon. A pleasure. Amaya speaks highly of your… rigorous standards." There was a subtle, challenging edge to the word.
Aris shook his hand, the gesture brief and firm. "Standards are meaningless if not uniformly applied." His gaze flicked back to Amaya. "I trust you enjoyed your evening." It was a dismissal, and a reminder of her early departure.
"We did, thank you," Richard answered for her, his arm tightening slightly around her. "We're celebrating, actually. The wedding is finally on the horizon. Next spring."
Aris's expression didn't change, but something in the air around him seemed to grow colder. His eyes held Amaya's for a beat too long. "Congratulations," he said, the word utterly devoid of warmth. "I'm sure it will be a… well-organized event." He looked down at his son then, his voice dropping into a different, softer register. "Rihan, this is Dr. Snow. She works with me at the hospital."
The little boy didn't speak. He just stared at her, then slowly, hesitantly, lifted his hand in a tiny wave before burying his face back against his father's leg.
The simple, silent gesture undid her. This was his life. A quiet, brilliant boy who couldn't bear the noise of a greeting. A father who had traded his own warmth for this fierce, focused devotion. And she was an outsider, an acquaintance from work who was engaged to a man in a suit.
"It's very nice to meet you, Rihan," Amaya said softly, forcing a smile that felt like cracking glass.
"We won't keep you," Aris said, his tone final. "Goodnight, Dr. Snow. Mr. Thorne."
He guided Rihan back to their table, turning his back on them, shutting them out of his small, fragile world once more.
Richard steered her towards the exit. "Intense fellow," he murmured as they stepped into the night air. "A bit rude, frankly. But brilliant, you said? I suppose that's what matters for your training."
Amaya didn't answer. She slid into the waiting town car, the emerald silk of her dress feeling like a costume she couldn't wait to tear off. She had gone to the dinner to reaffirm her choice, to immerse herself in the reality of her future.
All she had found was a ghost, and a little boy with his father's hair and her own too-loud heart reflected back at her in a pair of silent, watchful brown eyes.