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The maître d' recognizes me. "Ms. Monroe. Wonderful to see you again. Mr. Sullivan called to say he's running slightly behind. Your table is ready whenever you are."
I follow him to our usual booth, tucked away in a corner that feels both private and perfectly positioned to see and be seen. I order Camden's usual martini and a glass of champagne for myself—a small rebellion. Tonight feels like a champagne night.
Halfway through my drink, Camden arrives in a flurry of expensive cologne and apologies.
"Traffic was a nightmare." He leans down to kiss my cheek rather than my lips. "You look nice."
Nice. Not beautiful or stunning. Just nice.
Camden slides into the booth, immediately checking his phone. "Did you order for me?"
"Your martini should be here any second. I didn't order food yet."
"Perfect." He loosens his tie slightly—a rare concession to comfort from a man who wears bespoke suits like armor. "How's Mia? Still drowning in student debt for that fashion degree?"
His tone makes me bristle. "She's doing great, actually. Her professor selected one of her designs for the department showcase."
"Hmm." Camden sips his martini, which appeared as if summoned. "I hope she has a backup plan. The fashion industry isn't exactly known for its stability."
I swallow my defensive response. Not tonight. Tonight is supposed to be special.
"Let's not talk about Mia," I say instead, reaching across the table to touch his hand. "It's our anniversary."
"Of course." He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Two years. Time flies."
The waiter appears, reciting the evening's specials with practiced elegance. Camden orders for both of us without consulting me—another habit I've stopped noticing months ago.
As the waiter departs, Camden reaches into his jacket pocket. My heart leaps into my throat. This is it. The moment Mia predicted. The velvet box. The question. The beginning of forever.
Instead, he pulls out his phone and places it on the table beside his plate.
"I'm expecting an important email," he explains. "The Sullivan account is on the verge of signing."
"On our anniversary dinner?" The words slip out before I can stop them.
Camden's expression hardens slightly. "Some of us have partners to impress."
The barb lands precisely where intended. Camden made senior associate last year. I'm still trying to find my footing after my previous design firm downsized.
"I didn't mean?—"
"It's fine," he cuts me off. "Let's just enjoy dinner."
But something has shifted in the air between us, like the first warning crackle before a storm. Camden barely looks at me throughout the appetizer, his attention divided between his phone and the restaurant's other patrons. I find myself watching his face, searching for clues to his mood.
Have I ruined the moment? Will he still propose?
When the sommelier arrives with an expensive bottle of champagne that Camden has apparently pre-ordered, hope flutters back to life in my chest.
"A special occasion deserves the proper celebration," Camden says as our glasses are filled.
I smile, my fingertips tingling with anticipation. This is it. The champagne. The romantic setting. The significant look in Camden's eyes.
He raises his glass. "To us."
"To us," I echo, taking a sip of bubbles that taste like promise.
Camden sets down his glass with deliberate care, then folds his hands on the table. "Cassie, there's something I need to say."