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“Maybe,” I admit, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Mara laughs, bright and unrestrained. It’s the first time tonight I’ve seen the polished mask drop — and beneath it, there’s something warm, sharp, and utterly real.
We eat and talk.
At first, it’s the standard topics: the arrangement, the timeline, the political gains. But gradually, the conversation drifts.
She tells me about her years studying at the university. The way she fell in love with art museums and bustling city streets, where no one knew her name.
“I loved the freedom,” she says softly, twisting a shrimp tail between her fingers. “No guards. No whispers. No weight of being Thiago Delgado’s daughter hanging over my head.”
I listen, surprisingly riveted.
It strikes me, suddenly, how lonely her world must be. How carefully she’s learned to move, to calculate, to balance the image everyone expects. And yet here, in this quiet corner, with butter smeared on her knuckles and laughter slipping free, she’s not the delicate little princess everyone assumes.
She’s sharp. Messy. Vibrant.
I feel something shift inside me — a quiet, unexpected pull.
She glances up at me, eyes bright.
“What about you, Zasha? You always this quiet, or is this just the brooding Russian act you pull out for dinner dates?”
I huff out a soft laugh before I can stop myself.
“I’m always this quiet.”
She grins. “I’ll take that as a challenge.”
By the time we finish the meal, I realize — reluctantly, inwardly — that I’ve enjoyed myself more than I meant to.
More than I should.
This was supposed to be simple. Tactical.
But as I watch Mara remove her gloves, wipe her fingers with a wet napkin, and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, I realize this is already becoming something far more complicated.
We step out into the night, the air cool and scented faintly with rain. I hand her my jacket to keep her warm, and walk just behind her, watching the soft sway of her dark hair, the way her peach dress clings gently to her.
She turns slightly, her eyes catching mine, warm hazel glowing softly under the streetlights. Something sharp and magnetic coils low in my chest. I tell myself to end the night cleanly. To keep this controlled. To not cross the line.
But with every quiet second, the pull tightens.
We stop near the car, neither of us speaking.
She hugs her arms lightly around herself, her lips curved in a small, hesitant smile.
And that’s when I feel it — the crack.
The one that’s been threatening all evening. The polite conversations, the careful questions, the amused surprise when she rolled up her sleeves at the table — all of it has been circling, pressing, chipping away at the wall I’ve spent years perfecting.
And now, standing here, with her eyes soft and unguarded, something inside me shatters.
I step forward.
Her breath catches.
My hand lifts, fingers brushing the smooth line of her jaw, cupping her face gently but firmly.