Page 20 of Before Broken Vows

Her brow lifts slightly. "That's not really a question."

"It wasn't meant to be."

Her lips press together. "And if I say no?"

"You won't."

Her gaze sharpens. "Still like to control everything, don't you?"

"Only what's mine—or in this case, what used to be."

That makes her blink. She looks away, jaw tight. I don't regret the line.

She exhales. "What if I'm not hungry?"

"Then you'll sit there and watch me eat."

A silence, then the smallest trace of a smile. "You always were charming."

I turn to leave but pause.

"Ask Elena to help get you something nice to wear."

She shakes her head. "See you tonight, Theo."

I go about my day, and I find that the hours crawl by. I review the incoming surveillance on Chris Xanos, go over his work history, transcribed phone calls, client list, public records. Nothing stands out—yet.

On the surface, he's got no connections and nothing special about him. He's just a 55-year-old bland man in a midlife crisis. When he's not with a client, he's sending DMs to any twenty-something chick showing cleavage on their Instagram account within a 25-mile radius of Athens.

But if he's the one who brokered the Warriors' financial funneling, I'll find it. I always do—and if I don't find it on paper, I'll pry it out of his fucking chest if I have to.

I glance at my Patek Philippe, the infamous quarter-of-a-million-dollar watch my dad gave me for my 30th birthday. I can't believe five years later he'd be gone, Ares would be running things, and I'd still be wearing it.

But right now, I think it's broken. I swear an hour has gone by, but it says only fifteen minutes. Thankfully, on the twentieth time I check, it says 7:48 p.m., and I'm seated in the dining room when she walks in.

And fuck me if it doesn't hit harder than I was prepared for.

She's in a black dress. Simple. Modest by most standards, but on her? It's devastating. Her body was always magnificent. She had cleavage women spend thousands to mimic, but she never flaunted it, always kept it hidden. Unless, of course, she was in a bathing suit.

We lived by the beach those four years.

Her eyes avoid mine until she's halfway into the room.

"I didn't think you'd be early," she says carefully.

It takes everything in me not to stand, kiss her cheek, pull out her chair.

"It was by accident. Elena had to remind me," I say, lying, not sure why.

She sits across from me. I pour myself a glass of wine and hover the bottle over her glass. "Still drink Chianti?"

"Not in a long time, but sure, I'll have some."

I pour her some and slide the glass over to her. Our fingertips touch, and I find I'm the only one pulling away like I was being electrocuted.

As we wait for the food, we drink our wine in an awkward silence. I don’t know why, but I’m compelled to fill the void.

“So, Elena mentioned you were a little uncomfortable trying on the dress you’re wearing. I don’t know why, it looks good on you.”