"It's still set."
Linia's voice was low, almost reverent, as we stood at the edge of the dining room. The generator had come back on sometime before dawn, restoring light but not comfort. Chandeliers glowed softly overhead, revealing what the darkness had hidden.
The anniversary table.
White linen, untouched. Crystal glasses aligned with obsessive precision. Candles burned down to stubs, wax frozen mid-drip. At the center, a silver vase of white roses—wilting now, their petals bruised by time.
My breath caught.
"I forgot," I whispered.
Linia didn't answer. She didn't need to.
Daniel had set the table days ago. I remembered walking past the room, distracted, preoccupied with secrets and survival. I remembered thinking later. Always later.
Now later had arrived.
I stepped forward slowly, each footfall echoing too loudly. My fingers brushed the back of Daniel's chair—the one he always insisted on sitting in, facing the door. Control disguised as habit.
"He never misses this," I said.
Linia watched me carefully. "That's why it matters."
I pulled out my chair and sat. The wood was cool beneath my palms. For a moment, I imagined Daniel across from me—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, watching my face like he used to. Before distance learned how to live between us.
"Do you want to leave?" Linia asked.
"No," I replied. "I want to remember."
She sat across from me instead.
The table felt wrong between us—too intimate, too symbolic. This space belonged to a marriage that was already dissolving.
"It's our fifteenth year," I said. "We promised we'd never let this day pass quietly."
Linia tilted her head. "Promises change shape."
"Or they break," I said.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
My phone buzzed against the table.
Daniel.
I stared at the screen, my pulse spiking.
Linia didn't look away. "You don't have to answer."
"I know," I said.
The phone buzzed again.
And again.
I answered.
"Where are you?" Daniel demanded.
"At home," I replied. "Where else would I be on our anniversary?"
Silence.
Then, softer, "You left."
"Yes."
"You ran," he said.
"No," I replied. "I escaped."
His breath hitched. "They're pressuring me."
"They always were," I said.
"They want you back," he continued. "At the table. Presentable. Composed."
I looked at the roses. "Like decoration."
"That's not fair."
"It's accurate."
Another pause.
"I set the table for you," he said quietly. "I thought… maybe if you saw it—"
"I see it," I interrupted. "I see everything now."
Linia stood and walked toward the window, giving me space without leaving the room.
"Is she there?" Daniel asked suddenly.
"Yes," I said.
His voice hardened. "Send her away."
"No."
"You're choosing her again."
"I'm choosing myself," I replied. "You just don't like who that is."
"I loved you," he said.
I closed my eyes. "So did I."
The call ended.
I set the phone down gently, as if it might shatter.
Linia returned to the table. "He's losing leverage."
"He's losing control," I corrected.
She studied the roses. "Control always fights hardest before it collapses."
I laughed softly. "You sound like you've lived through this before."
"I have," she replied. "Not here. Not with him. But with men who thought they owned outcomes."
"And how did it end?" I asked.
She met my gaze. "With consequences."
The front door opened.
Both of us froze.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway—measured, deliberate.
Daniel stepped into the dining room.
His suit was immaculate. His eyes were bloodshot.
"You shouldn't be here," I said.
He glanced at Linia. "I live here."
"Not tonight," she replied calmly.
He ignored her and turned to me. "Sit with me."
I gestured to the empty chair across from mine. "The table's been waiting."
He hesitated, then pulled out his chair and sat.
The air thickened.
For a moment, it was just us—the three of us—bound by history and tension and things that could never be unsaid.
"I wanted to fix this," Daniel said. "I still do."
"By controlling the narrative?" I asked.
"By protecting us," he replied.
"From whom?" I pressed.
His jaw tightened. "From them."
Linia leaned forward. "You are them."
His eyes flashed. "You don't belong in this conversation."
She smiled faintly. "I belong in the consequences."
He turned back to me. "They've offered a deal."
My heart sank. "What kind of deal?"
"Distance," he said. "Temporary separation. A public statement. Medical oversight."
I stiffened. "Oversight?"
"They're worried about your stability," he continued. "The pregnancy. The stress."
My hand flew to my stomach instinctively.
"You told them," I whispered.
"I had to," he said. "They were already asking questions."
"So you answered with lies," I said.
"They'll freeze everything if you don't cooperate," he said. "Your accounts. Your foundations."
Linia laughed softly. "They already tried."
Daniel shot her a glare. "Stay out of this."
"She's already in it," I said. "You put her there."
He leaned toward me. "Come back. Sit with me. Let me handle this."
I stared at the man I had loved for half my life.
"You missed your chance," I said.
His hand reached across the table—slow, deliberate.
I watched it approach.
And stopped it with my palm.
The contact was brief. Final.
Another missed touch.
"I won't be managed," I said. "Not by you. Not by them."
His eyes glistened. "Then you're choosing war."
Linia stood abruptly. "Then we leave. Now."
Daniel rose too quickly. "You're not taking her."
I stood, chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I decide where I go."
The lights flickered.
Again.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I answered without hesitation.
"Yes."
"You rejected the offer," the voice said calmly. "Disappointing."
"I reject you," I replied.
A pause.
"Then the board meeting tomorrow will be… decisive," the voice continued. "Bring proof. Or be removed."
The line went dead.
Linia's eyes sharpened. "They're forcing your hand."
Daniel swallowed hard. "What proof?"
I looked at both of them.
"The kind that ends marriages," I said.
"The kind that ends empires."
Outside, thunder rolled, closer now.
The anniversary table stood between us—set for a celebration that would never happen.
And as the candles sputtered and went out one by one,
I understood—
This wasn't the end of love.
It was the beginning of reckoning.
And tomorrow,
someone would lose everything they thought was permanent.