Chapter 3

Three years later, I saw Elara again at a business dinner.

It was in Los Angeles, where I was on a trip with my company. A client was hosting a dinner at a high-end private dining club.

The room was massive, decorated with gold and velvet. The table was set with fine china and fresh flowers. Outside the window, the LA skyline glowed like a masterpiece of light.

I sat in the corner, listening to the client talk about their new project, my mind calculating my commission.

The door opened, and a server came in to bring the dishes.

I looked up, and my whole body went rigid.

The woman serving the food was Elara.

She wore a server's uniform, her hair tied back, wearing no makeup. She looked much thinner than three years ago. There was a look on her face I'd never seen before―not joy, not sadness, but a sort of profound stillness, as if she had accepted something after walking through fire. There were fine lines around her eyes that hadn't been there before, likely the toll of three years of struggle.

"This is our signature dish, the truffle-baked chicken," she said in a steady voice, placing the plate on the table and turning to leave.

"Elara." I called her name.

She paused but didn't turn back.

"Elara." I called again, louder this time.

This time, she turned. She looked at me, her expression blank, as flat as tap water.

"Sir, you've mistaken me for someone else." She walked away even faster, almost as if she were fleeing.

"I didn't mistake you." I stood up, blocking her path. "Elara, it's me, Connor. Look at me, really look at me."

"Sir," she interrupted, her voice cold―as cold as that rainy night three years ago. "I really don't know you."

Then, she walked away.

Everyone in the room stared at me. The client asked, "Connor, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." I sat back down, picked up my glass and took a sip, my hand trembling slightly. "Just thought I recognized an old friend."

But my eyes never left her.