Chapter 6 - The Encounter at the Bistro
Two weeks after the divorce settlement, I found myself sitting at a corner table of a quiet French bistro in River North, enjoying a leisurely lunch of grilled salmon and crisp pinot grigio.
The sun was shining through the large glass windows, and for the first time in five years, my shoulders weren't locked in a permanent state of tension. I didn't have to check my watch to make sure dinner was started by 5:30 PM. I didn't have to worry about whether my laughter was too loud or my outfit too casual.
Then, the bell above the bistro door chimed.
A man walked in, and my breath caught slightly in my throat.
It was Julian. But he looked like a ghost of the man who had screamed at me through a locked kitchen door. His bespoke charcoal suit was wrinkled, his hair was uncombed, and he had dark, bruised circles under his eyes. He looked thinner, his shoulders caved in as if the invisible weight of his own lies was finally crushing him.
He was accompanied by an older woman in a heavy fur coat—Fiona, who looked like she had aged ten years in a single month. Her face was pinched into a permanent scowl, her eyes darting around the bistro as if looking for someone to blame for her catastrophic fall from grace.
Julian’s eyes swept across the dining room, and they landed directly on me.
He froze mid-stride. For a second, a flash of pure, unadulterated humiliation crossed his face, followed instantly by desperate, pathetic anger.
Fiona tugged on his arm. "Julian, what are you stopping for? Find a table, my feet are killing me—oh."
Her eyes locked onto mine. The color drained completely from her face.
Instead of turning around and walking out, Julian marched straight toward my table, his jaw clenched so tightly I thought his teeth might shatter.
"Sloan," he rasped, his voice lacking any of its former booming arrogance. He looked pathetic—a fallen prince standing in a mid-range bistro, realizing his kingdom had been repossessed.
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I didn't stand up. I didn't put down my fork. I simply took a slow sip of my wine, looked up at him with cool, clinical indifference, and raised a single, perfectly shaped eyebrow.
"Can I help you?" I asked, my voice carrying effortlessly across the quiet restaurant. "Or are you lost? The soup kitchen is three blocks west."
