Chapter 11 - The First Friday
The transition from a corporate merger disguised as a courtship to an actual, authentic date felt less like a step forward and more like stepping onto a tightrope without a safety net. For five years, my calendar with Dante had been dictated by boardrooms, gala committees, family summits, and the silent, suffocating shadow of Clara Vance. Every dinner had been a networking event; every anniversary had been a photo op for the society pages.
When my phone buzzed at exactly 6:58 PM on Friday, my thumb hovered over the screen. It wasn't an assistant's reminder. It was a direct text from an unknown number—or rather, a number I hadn't seen in his personal phone for years.
*Dante: I’m downstairs. No limo. No reservations under an alias. Just a vintage cab and a table at the little bistro on Orleans Street where you used to study law school briefs.*
I stared at the screen, a slow, disbelieving laugh escaping my lips. The old Dante would have booked the entire main dining room of Alinea or locked down a private terrace overlooking the river just to make a statement. The new Dante—the man who had spent four months dismantling his empire, cutting ties with toxic family enablers, and learning how to look people in the eye without a PR strategy—was waiting in a yellow cab.
I walked over to the full-length mirror in my dressing room. I wasn't wearing a six-thousand-dollar haute couture gown that required a team of stylists to zip. Instead, I wore a simple, elegant emerald silk dress that hugged my curves without constricting my breath, paired with comfortable block heels. My hair fell in soft waves over my shoulders, unadorned by diamond tiaras or heavy pearl pins.
When I stepped out of the lobby of my building, the damp Chicago spring air hit my face, carrying the familiar scent of rain and asphalt. A battered yellow cab was idling by the curb. The back door swung open instantly, and Dante stepped out.
He wasn't wearing a bespoke Tom Ford tuxedo. He wore a dark charcoal wool coat over a simple black sweater and tailored trousers. His hair was slightly windswept, and as the streetlamp caught his face, I saw the genuine, nervous hesitation in his eyes. The billionaire tycoon who could crush a hostile takeover with a single phone call looked genuinely terrified that I might turn around and walk back inside.
“Hi,” he said softly, his voice barely audible over the hum of city traffic.
“Hi,” I replied, stopping a few feet away from him. “Is this your idea of a subtle entrance?”
Dante’s lips twitched into a self-deprecating smile. He ran a hand through his dark hair, looking down at the pavement before meeting my gaze again. “Subtle isn't my strong suit, Bella. But I'm learning. The cab driver thinks I'm an idiot for waiting twenty minutes without running the meter, but I didn't want to rush you.”
“You’ve spent five years rushing me, Dante.”
“I know.” The words were heavy, laden with all the unspoken apologies we had both spent weeks dissecting. He stepped forward, offering his hand, palm up. Not demanding, not pulling, just waiting. “May I?”
I looked at his hand. The calluses from the law books we used to share years ago had long been replaced by the smooth skin of an executive, but his fingers were steady. Slowly, deliberately, I slid my hand into his. His fingers immediately closed around mine, fitting together with a terrifying, undeniable familiarity.
“Lead the way, Mr. Vance,” I said, a playful edge cutting through the heavy air.
“It’s just Dante, Miss Miller. Just Dante.”
The bistro was small, smelling of garlic, fresh bread, and simmering red wine. We sat in a corner booth near a fogged-up window that looked out onto the glowing lights of Orleans Street. There were no hushed whispers from neighboring tables, no society matrons whispering behind crystal flutes, and no panicked publicists rushing over to check our seating arrangement.
For the first hour, we didn't talk about Clara. We didn't talk about the canceled wedding, the millions lost in broken contracts, or the wreckage of our mutual social circle. We talked about law school. We talked about the stupid coffee cart we used to visit when we were twenty-two, dreaming of the day we would conquer the city.
“You still take your coffee with three sugars and too much cinnamon,” Dante observed, watching me over the rim of his red wine glass.
“And you still pretend to drink black coffee just to look sophisticated when everyone knows it tastes like charcoal,” I shot back, narrowing my eyes with a smile.
Dante laughed—a real, booming laugh that caused the waiter passing by to look over with a surprised grin. It was a sound I hadn't heard in years. The man across from me was shedding the armor piece by piece, revealing the boy I had fallen in love with before the money, the status, and Clara Vance had ever entered our orbit.
As the night deepened, however, the air between us shifted from nostalgic warmth to the inevitable reality we both had to face.
“Clara tried to reach out yesterday,” Dante said quietly, swirling the last remnants of wine in his glass. His eyes didn't drop; they stayed fixed on mine, testing my boundaries, refusing to keep secrets.
I didn't flinch. I took a slow sip of water, my pulse steady. “What did she want?”
“She wanted to meet. She claims the board is freezing her out of the Vance-Miller philanthropic trust, and she thinks I can intervene.” Dante let out a dry, humorless sound. “She still thinks the world operates on my old rules. She thinks because I used to bail her out of social scandals, I’m obligated to clean up the mess she made of our lives.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“I blocked her number on every device I own,” Dante said flatly, his voice dropping an octave, dead serious. “I told my legal team that if she or her family attempts to contact me regarding business or personal matters, it goes straight to the litigation department for harassment. I’m done, Bella. Not just with her—with the entire ecosystem that allowed her to exist in our space.”
I studied his face. There was no hesitation, no residual guilt, no lingering attachment. Just cold, hard resolve.
“She’s not going to go away quietly, Dante,” I warned softly, setting my glass down. “People like Clara don't lose gracefully. They burn the house down on their way out.”
“Let her burn it,” Dante murmured, reaching across the table to wrap his fingers around mine once more. His thumb traced the back of my hand in a soothing rhythm. “There’s nothing left in that house worth saving anyway. The only thing I care about is right here.”
May you like
I looked down at our joined hands, feeling the warmth radiating between us. The road ahead was long, fraught with public scrutiny, professional fallout, and the lingering scars of betrayal. But as I raised my eyes to meet his, I knew one thing for certain: for the first time in our lives, we were finally on the same side.
***
