Jennifer POV

I woke up in the middle of a hot afternoon, sweating profusely. I switched on the light to see if I could see Stanley. I opened the door and checked outside, only to realize I was dreaming. “Oh wow!!!” I felt so relaxed and happy that it was just a dream.

The silence in my small apartment was the silence of a life put on hold, of dinners eaten alone, and of a future that had been sentenced to years behind bars alongside my ex-husband, Stanley.

In my early thirties, I already felt ancient and heavy with guilt, like a ship drifting in a calm, empty sea. I was still deep in my thoughts when the doorbell jingled. I struggled to get up from the bed a second time to see who was at the door, and there was Alistair Croft.

Alistair Croft had settled into the careful rhythm of a life measured out in teaspoons. In his early fifties, his world was a small, tidy flat overlooking a quiet stretch of the Hudson River in New York. His days were predictable: a morning crossword, a walk along the riverbank regardless of the weather, a simple lunch, and an afternoon spent with historical biographies despite his wealth.

He was, by all accounts, a man content with his own company, his grief for his late wife, Presh, having softened from a sharp ache to a familiar, weathered stone in his pocket.

I ushered him into my living room. “Welcome, sir,” I said with a smile blooming on my face.

“Are you surprised to see me in your house?” he said, his voice cracking.

“No, not actually, sir. I…I was just surprised to see you here.”

He looked up. I was smiling at him; my eyes were the color of rich, dark earth. “Just… reflexes,” Croft managed, his voice gruff.

Croft found himself smiling back. It was a strange, unused feeling on his face. He brought out a lily and handed it over to me, saying, “The aroma from this lily will always keep you company in your lonely times.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. This was the first time since I married Stanley that I had ever received flowers. As I held it in my arms, it took me back to the days when Stanley and I were dating.

Stanley would always find his way to my house after work to check up on me. We would bathe together in my warm bathroom and then wait for me to fall asleep before he finally found his way back to his house. I thought that memory would stay forever. But just like how most people define marriage to be, my own definition was cruel.

He nodded in response to my appreciation, but then, as I was wrapping the lily, he said, “Do you… do you like Turkish Delight?”

And in his pocket was a small, elegant box of rose and pistachio Turkish Delight from a specialty grocer.

My surprise was a visible, lovely thing. With a breathtaking smile, I said, “Oh, Alistair! Thank you.”

That “thank you” echoed in his mind. It wasn’t just politeness; it was warmth. It was a connection.

Then, after that, I dashed to the kitchen to prepare some food for my August visitor.

“No, dear,” I was interrupted by Croft. “We can just simply go out to one of the most expensive restaurants in town and have a nice time together.”

I agreed; at least I have been looking for this opportunity to go out to a nice place and have a good time. This was like a dream come true for me.

I wore a pink short gown and some of the beautiful luxury accessories Stanley bought for me after leaving me with a vigorous scar on my body to help me erase the pains.

Just like the beautiful queen I had always been, I walked to the living room in my stunning heels, ready to explore the quietness and peaceful atmosphere of the night.

It was a beautiful moment.

The Texas sun was a blazing orange coin sinking into the horizon as Croft navigated his smooth, black Mercedes-Benz through the neat streets of Dallas.

Beside him, I gazed out the window, admiring the calm nature of the atmosphere. I’d worn a simple pink dress; it looked anything but simple. It caught the dying light and made my eyes sparkle.

“You’re being very mysterious,” I said, a playful smile on my lips.

“Good,” Croft replied, a slow, confident smile spreading across his face. “Mystery is the point.”

He pulled up to a low-slung limestone building that looked more like a modern art gallery than a restaurant. A discreet brass plaque by the door read: Petra. A male attendant dressed in neatly ironed whites opened the door with a respectful nod.

Inside, the air was cool and smelled of sandalwood and slow-roasted meat. The lighting was intimate, casting pools of gold on dark wood tables. The ceiling was a breathtaking installation of twisted metal and crystal, mimicking the Texas sky at night. The host, recognizing Croft immediately, led us to a secluded booth in the back, with furniture padded with buttery-soft leather.

“Croft, this is… incredible,” I whispered.

“Only the best for you, Jen,” he said, his voice low and sincere.

The dinner was more like a homemade delicacy. We started with seared foie gras on brioche toast with a cherry reduction that was both sweet and spicy. For the main course, at Croft’s insistence, we had the Wagyu ribeye, a steak so beautifully marbled it looked like a map of some delicious, unknown country. It was served with truffle-infused mashed potatoes and asparagus so fresh it snapped with a sound only they could hear.

Throughout the meal, we talked and laughed. Croft, usually so reserved in his boardrooms, was animated, telling stories of his early days in the oil business that had me grasping my napkin in laughter.

Croft, too, wasn't the only one talking. He listened, truly listened, as I spoke about my art class, my eyes alight with passion. The world outside, with its deadlines and pressures, simply ceased to exist.

After the well-deserved, honorable dinner, Croft paid the check without even looking at the total. As we stepped out into the warm Texas night, I laced my fingers with his.

“That was the most amazing meal of my life,” I said, staring directly at him.

“The night’s not over,” Croft said, opening the car door for me. “But we have one more stop.”