Chapter 65 65
Katherine's POV
We were all seated at the dining table—the one I'd set with the elegant tablecloth and the low candles Andrew had lit to give it a warm touch.
The smell of dinner made the occasion feel special. I'd made bacalhau à brás with plenty of egg and fresh parsley, a tomato and onion salad with oregano that always came out crisp, and for dessert, pastéis de nata I'd bought from that bakery downtown we loved—the best ones, always fresh because everything sold out so fast.
Everything impressive, just like he'd asked. I'd prepared it with shaking hands in the kitchen—chopping, stirring, tasting—trying not to think about what was coming. But now they were here. Andrew beside me, smiling like always, pouring wine for himself and them, sparkling water for me. Emma across from us, young and fresh in her light dress, hair loose. And Elliot next to her, right in front of me.
It was the same scene... but this wasn't his mother beside him. It was his girlfriend.
My hands shook on my thighs, hidden under the tablecloth, clenched so hard it didn't even make sense anymore—because at this point in my life I should've learned to hide it better. But my eyes kept finding him anyway. I couldn't help it. It wasn't just that he looked more attractive—that would be too easy an excuse, too kind to myself. What really unsettled me was something else.
Elliot no longer had that awkward, almost desperate air he'd had at the beginning, like his whole body was always on the verge of spilling over from one gesture of mine. Now he sat straight, back relaxed against the chair, shirt fitting his shoulders, collar open with an ease that didn't seem forced, hair a little shorter, jawline sharper. He'd learned to take up space. To not ask permission with his eyes. To wait. And in him, that wasn't an innocent improvement—it was a dangerous shift.
I knew him too well to fool myself with the surface version. That calm he showed wasn't peace—it was restraint. It was someone who'd learned to lock doors from the inside, not forget them. I saw it in how he listened to Andrew, the slight tilt of his head when someone spoke, that polite silence that had nothing submissive about it. Elliot had always been intense, but before his intensity was messy, clumsy, impulsive. Now it was polished. Directed. And that scared me more than any message, more than any unexpected appearance.
I caught myself noticing details I shouldn't notice in a former student—in the student he no longer was, in the mistake I'd turned into a crack I couldn't seal. The way he rested his hands on the table, like he needed to keep them still so they wouldn't give anything away. How he'd only look up when someone said his name. And above all, how he avoided looking at me directly—not out of respect, not guilt, but because he knew that if he did, if he held my gaze longer than strictly proper, I'd recognize immediately what was still there. Not illusion or nostalgia. Hunger. That way he had of wanting that was never gentle, even though I'd told myself that lie too many times to sleep at night. It felt almost grotesque to realize that while I'd put all this effort into being a proper wife again, an orderly woman, a responsible soon-to-be mother—he'd grown in exactly the opposite direction from what I needed to forget him. More confident, more in control of himself, less willing to settle for emotional scraps. And the worst part wasn't feeling him close again. The worst was understanding, with uncomfortable clarity, that Elliot no longer looked at me like an impossible fantasy—but like an unfinished story. Like something that hadn't ended well. And me, sitting across from my husband, hand on my belly, I couldn't allow myself another second of self-deception: it wasn't him who hadn't turned the page. It was me who'd underlined the last one.
I slid my gaze to the girl next to him. Emma. Young. Really young. Pretty without trying, with that skin still untouched by exhaustion, long disappointments, untimely compromises. She leaned a little toward Elliot when she spoke, like her body just went to him naturally, like there was no reason not to. On the surface, they were exactly what a healthy couple should be. Two people at the same stage of life, no messy histories staining the edges, no wounds forcing them to tread carefully, no secrets held together with half-truths.
I caught myself comparing myself to her without any inner shame—with a rawness that embarrassed me and relieved me at the same time. I couldn't compete with that lightness, that freshness, that way of sitting at the table without calculating gestures, silences, consequences. Emma didn't look at anyone seeking confirmation. She didn't measure her words. She wasn't on guard. She was just there, taking her place beside him like it belonged to her—naturally, legitimately.
And if I was honest with myself, she was exactly the woman Elliot needed to build a life that didn't revolve around a badly healed obsession.
I looked down at my plate because I felt an uncomfortable pressure in my chest—a thick sadness that had nothing romantic or noble about it. It was a late, silent, almost ridiculous mourning. I forced myself to repeat that I should be happy for him. That it was the right thing. That the best thing for him was to forget me once and for all—see me as a youthful mistake, a story you don't tell out loud when you get home. I wanted him to be happy with her. Really. I wanted her to keep the part of Elliot I could no longer touch without causing damage.
But the hallway scene came back without permission, uncomfortably clear. His body getting closer than necessary, his arm around me with a familiarity he no longer had any right to, his low voice by my ear, telling me we'd meet that same night, that I wasn't in a position to say no. It wasn't an open threat. He didn't need one. The way he said it was enough—the certainty with which he took that space I'd thought I'd closed. That's when I understood what I was refusing to accept now, sitting at this impeccable table surrounded by glasses and proper conversation.
Elliot hadn't learned to let go.
He'd learned to wait.
And for me, that wasn't a small difference. It wasn't a passing discomfort. It was a clear sign that I was still—however much I tried to hide it under a pregnancy, a rebuilt marriage, a carefully ordered life—an active piece in his way of wanting. And I couldn't pretend I didn't see it. I couldn't keep telling myself it was teenage jealousy or a confusion badly resolved. What was between us was no longer a badly closed story. It was a twisted bond still alive on one side... and that, in some way I struggled to admit, still knew how to reach me.