The lasagna was perfect.
Three kinds of cheese, ricotta, mozzarella, and a sharp dusting of aged Parmesan, bubbled gold and brown at the edges, the sauce a rich crimson still simmering with the fragrant basil she had picked from the windowsill that afternoon.
The scent drifted through the spacious, loft-style kitchen—a warm, earthy, and familiar smell of home and effortless comfort—a warmth given shape, settling like a promise in the cool, minimalist architecture of William's apartment.
Eloise stepped back from the professional-grade stainless steel stove, the crisp, white cotton apron tied snug around her waist, and surveyed the table she had spent nearly two hours arranging.
It was a tableau of carefully curated romance, an offering of her earnest heart. White roses, chosen for their understated elegance, stood in a heavy crystal vase. The "good plates," heavy porcelain with a thin silver rim that William never bothered to use, were set out perfectly, the silverware aligned with the obsessive precision she had learned from him.
Two wine glasses, already filled with the deep ruby of a Bordeaux she knew he favored, caught the low light from the range hood like secrets waiting to be told.
The entire scene was meticulously crafted, a stage set for a new beginning. A declaration.
Eight-fifteen.
He was late. Of course, he was late. He was often caught up—in work or meetings or whatever his world demanded of him. His world, she had long ago realized, operated on a schedule that seldom aligned with the softer rhythms of hers.
But tonight, she didn't mind. Tonight, she had planned on it. She wanted the dramatic flourish of his arrival, the slight disorientation in his sharp, blue eyes when he stopped dead at the sight of what she had done. What she was ready to give. The commitment she was ready to embody, no longer tentative, but complete.
She reached for the matches. One strike against the box, a steady flame, and the tall, slender candles on the dining table caught fire.
The soft scent of peach and sandalwood curled through the apartment, expensive and complex, threading itself through the quick, restless energy of her nerves like a promise of something good and lasting.
Her heart fluttered, gentle but undeniably restless, like a bird testing its wings for the first time before a long, uncertain flight.
They had met in The Velvet Lantern two years ago, a lifetime ago, a time when she believed the world would always be hard, and she would always be small and insignificant inside it.
She had been waitressing that night, her uniform black skirt and white blouse, her hair twisted up with a pencil because she had lost her usual hair clip somewhere between the bus and her studio apartment, and couldn't afford to be late again. He had walked in alone, his suit sharp enough to cut glass, his tailored silhouette standing out against the dimly lit booths.
His eyes, the color of a winter dawn—pale, cold, and immensely focused—found hers immediately. He ordered the sea-bass special, listened to her recite the day's menu additions with a concentration that made her breath catch, and watched her with those disconcerting, still eyes the entire time she moved through the restaurant floor, attending to tables, and existing in the chaos.
When she finally brought the check, placing it on the small ceramic plate, he didn't glance at the total. He simply slid a crisp, new hundred-dollar bill across the table, and said, with an unnerving, quiet authority, "Keep it. And keep tomorrow night free."
She had laughed, a short, nervous expulsion of air, thinking it was a practiced, arrogant line from a man who expected everything to bend to his will.
It wasn't.
Three dates later—dinners in places she couldn't afford to even look into, conversations that delved deeper than anyone else had bothered to go—he kissed her under the restaurant's awning while a fierce, cold rain hammered the city into a shimmering silver blur.
Six months later, he gave her a key to this apartment, a key that felt heavy with implicit trust and future promises. Two years later, she was standing in his kitchen, wearing an apron and the trembling, acute anticipation of her own nerves.
Tonight, she was done waiting. Tonight, she wanted to choose him with her whole heart, her whole body. Tonight, she wanted to be brave.
She wiped her hands on the clean apron and picked up the white roses to carry them upstairs, a final touch for the inner sanctum.
The memory of her best friend hit her, sudden and warm, before she reached the bedroom doorway.
Jayla, earlier that afternoon, insisting on accompanying her to the grocery store despite her own tight schedule.
"You're going to be absolutely useless after the boutique," Jayla had said, linking their arms and pulling Eloise along the sidewalk. "Someone has to make sure you don't walk headfirst into a streetlamp while daydreaming about Will seeing you in that silk."
Eloise had laughed, her cheeks already warm with the anticipation of what was to come. "I'm not that bad."
"You're worse," Jayla teased, grabbing a bundle of white roses and holding them up like a trophy. "These. They're romantic without screaming desperate. Perfect for first-time magic."
Eloise had playfully elbowed her. "You're impossible. Go before Eric gets mad at me for keeping you late on your date."
Jayla waved the concern off with a toss of her hand. "Eric will survive a few extra minutes. My girl needs help preparing for her grand seduction arc." She winked, a gesture that was both bawdy and genuinely encouraging. "Call me when it's done."
Eloise rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her chest belied the action. "You're impossible."
"I know. But I love you anyway."
"Love you too."
Jayla climbed into the waiting cab, still grinning broadly. "Don't chicken out, El."
"I won't," Eloise had promised.
The memory softened Eloise's chest now, giving her courage a much-needed anchor. A small, nervous smile tugged at her mouth as she walked into the bedroom.
The room smelled faintly of William's cologne; the familiar, grounding scent of cedar and leather, with something sweeter and more complicated underneath. She set the roses on the dresser and carefully began scattering the petals across the duvet in the rough, simple shape of a heart.
It looked almost childish, an act of unvarnished hope, but perfect in its vulnerability and simplicity. The kind of thing she would have been mortified to do for anyone else, but which felt right for William.
She lit the candles on the nightstands, their small flames dancing like twin beacons. She dimmed the main lights until the room glowed like a quiet confession. Her fingers trembled a little as she played the Pentatonix version of "Can You Feel the Love Tonight," the soft, intricate harmonies filling the room like a shared, calming breath.
Everything was ready.
Everything was right.
She turned toward the dresser to retrieve the champagne silk lingerie, intending to have a quick bath and slip it on before he arrived—
But then stopped.
The small, discreet, wicker trash bin by the side of the dresser was overflowing.
An egregious pile of discarded items: a crumpled, empty pizza box, three silver-ringed beer cans that definitely weren't Will's preferred lager, and a scattering of crumpled receipts. It was entirely not Will's style.
He hated mess. Hated disorder. He cleaned his desk twice a day, organized his closet by color, and once scolded her with quiet intensity for leaving a teacup on the counter overnight. The sight of the overflowing, slovenly bin was almost funny in its transgression.
She wrinkled her nose. "You're such a man, Will" she murmured, amused, a soft wave of affection washing over her. He'd tease her later for cleaning up his mess, tell her she was turning into a 1950s housewife. She'd pretend to be offended, and he'd kiss her neck and say he loved that dutiful, meticulous part of her.
Smiling at the familiar thought, she knelt smoothly to tie off the draw-string bin liner.
The plastic bag lifted slightly under the tension.
And something pale, slick, and undeniably damning slid into clear view from beneath the empty pizza box.
Two used condoms. Knotted. Slick. Indisputable.
Her heart didn't shatter. It did something far colder, far more painful.
It froze. A solid, unyielding block in her chest.
Then plummeted, dragging her stomach down into an abyssal void.
The room twisted around her. The familiar, safe walls seemed to bend inward, shrinking, closing her in with the terrible sight. The warm, romantic candlelight felt suddenly harsh, wrong, a spotlight on her humiliation.
The soft, harmonious music turned thin and mocking, a cruel soundtrack to her discovery. Her breath stuttered violently in her throat, caught somewhere between inhale and complete, utter disbelief.
No. No. No.
Her brain rejected the image with a force that hurt, a dizzying nausea, like swallowing glass.
William wouldn't do that.
He wouldn't.
He had waited two years. Two years of quiet respect. He had never pushed, never coerced, never pressured her. He had been gentle. Patient. Tender. He had looked into her eyes and told her she was worth waiting for. He said she was special. He said she mattered more than anyone else.
He loved her.
Didn't he?
Her heartbeat began to pound, uneven and deafeningly loud, a frantic drum of fear and absolute, furious denial. Her throat tightened, constricting until she could barely draw a shallow breath.
No.
It had to be someone else.
Ryan.
Her mind grabbed the name like a desperate, flimsy lifeline.
Ryan stayed here sometimes. Ryan, William's messy, careless best friend, who slept around like it was an essential life function. Ryan, who collected women like tasteless trophies. Ryan, who bragged about things no one should ever brag about. Ryan, who had once seduced the interior designer out of boredom while William was out of town.
Ryan was careless.
Sloppy.
Reckless.
Ryan left permanent stains on William's ivory sofa that took her a week to scrub out.
Ryan used this room. Ryan used this trash bin when he crashed here.
It had to be Ryan.
She repeated it again and again, a silent, panicked mantra, a pathetic defense, a desperate shield against the undeniable truth pressing at her lungs, starving her of air.
Ryan.
Ryan.
Please let it be Ryan.
Her chest ached with the effort of denial. Her hands shook so violently that she gripped the smooth plastic of the bin liner until her knuckles were white. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes but didn't fall, held back by a stubborn, mule-headed refusal to believe what she was seeing.
William wouldn't do this to her.
Not after everything she had just committed to.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
Her phone buzzed, a small, insistent vibration on the dresser that cracked the charged silence of the room.
Jayla.
A sudden, desperate rush of relief flooded her like cool air. Someone familiar. Someone steady. Someone who could talk her down before her spiraling thoughts and this terrible, physical evidence drowned her completely.
She answered on autopilot, her voice thin and trembling despite her strenuous effort to control it.
"Hey, I'm kind of—"
"El."
Jayla's voice wasn't teasing or comforting.
It was sharp. Cold. Cutting.
Like the sound of a knife pressed directly to the hidden, beating truth.
"El… I'm at Le Papillon with Eric. The table right by the main window." Jayla's breath hitched, a tiny sound of distress. "Tell me that's not William feeding another woman oysters like it's fucking foreplay. And that he is with you as we speak."
The world didn't just tilt under Eloise's feet.
It split cleanly in two.
The heart-shaped petals on the bed blurred into a meaningless splash of white. Her lungs forgot how to work entirely. Her knees weakened until she had to grab the solid, unmoving edge of the heavy oak dresser to stay standing, her grasp tightening until her fingers ached.
Her voice came out small. Fragile. An empty whisper.
"Jayla… what?"
Jayla swallowed hard, her voice laced with raw horror and protectiveness. "El… he's here. With a woman. Laughing. Touching her hand. She's wearing that same little diamond necklace he bought you last Christmas. I'm looking at him right now. I thought he had an office meeting tonight."
Eric's voice sounded beside her, trying to temper her: "Calm down, Jay—maybe it isn't what it seems." Jayla snapped back: "Like hell it isn't. You know how tonight was supposed to be special. I'm going to murder that lying motherfucking son of a bitch tonight."
Something inside Eloise cracked. It was a sound so quiet, so deep, so final, that she barely registered it with her ears.
But she felt it.
A deep, final, irreversible fissure, tearing through the core of her hope.
The room caved in around her, the soft music still playing like a cruel lullaby as her carefully constructed world—the perfect lasagna, the white roses, the waiting silk, the two long years of trust—came undone.
The truth lay in two places now: slick and discarded in the bin, and shining, laughing, right across town. And in that moment, she realized with bone-deep certainty, that it had never, ever been Ryan.