Just then, Tristan suddenly wrapped his arms around me from behind. "I'm so glad you finally came to your senses," he whispered.
I stiffened, instinctively struggling to pull away, until his whisper brushed against my ear:
"I know you've suffered for me. Next week is our seventh anniversary. I'll make it up to you."
He kissed my forehead tenderly. I fought down the nausea rising in my throat and let him hold me—without pushing him away.
Our anniversary fell on the same day I'd planned to leave the country. I dressed carefully so Tristan wouldn't suspect a thing.
The moment I stepped in, he came forward and a flash of admiration crossed his face. "Meredith, you look beautiful tonight."
He bent as if to kiss me.
I batted his hand away playfully. "Not yet—dinner first."
His Adam's apple bobbed and his voice turned low. "Okay."
Under the candlelight and the glow of roses, his profile looked impossibly handsome. He sliced my steak with slow, considerate movements, and for a second I drifted back to the easy, untroubled version of us. The feeling didn't last—grief and cold clarity tugged me back.