The restaurant chosen by Isadora was one of the most sophisticated in Manhattan.
A private room on the top floor, with glass walls that allowed you to see the entire city illuminated like a carpet of stars. The background music was low, elegant, the type of soundtrack that didn't disturb, but made its presence felt.
Waiters in impeccable suits glided from table to table, serving expensive wines and dishes with names so refined that they even sounded ridiculous to those who knew what it was like to go hungry.
I sat down at the table punctually at eight, as agreed.
My tailored suit seemed to be a part of me now. The discreet gold watch on my wrist shone under the soft light of the hall. Everything about me screamed power and control.
I saw Isadora entering.
She was beautiful. She wore a long black dress that molded perfectly to her slender body. Hair tied in an elegant bun, subtle makeup that enhanced her natural beauty.
She walked towards me with the grace of someone who had always known they belonged in places like this.
I smiled, the trained smile that I knew how to give on these occasions, and stood up to kiss her cheek.
"You look stunning," I said, pulling out her chair.
"And you, as always, irresistible," Isadora replied, winking charmingly. "A perfect boyfriend."
We sat down. A waiter approached to take our orders, and soon we had two glasses of red wine in front of us.
Isadora was good company. She talked intelligently, knew the right subjects, asked the right questions. She talked about the new art gallery she was helping to inaugurate, about the trip she was planning to the south of France in the summer, about mutual friends from the social circle we were now part of.
I listened to her, participated in the conversation, but part of me always seemed distant.
It was strange.
She had everything any man could want. Beauty, education, ambition. She was the type of woman I needed by my side. The perfect partner for events, to build an impeccable image. But she didn't touch the part of me that, secretly, remained untouched.
I toasted with her when the wine arrived, and smiled at her funny stories, her sharp comments about the world of appearances.
Dinner arrived.
I ordered a thick, rare steak, the same as always. Isadora opted for handmade pasta with seafood.
The conversation continued to flow naturally.
She commented on our wedding.
"I've been thinking," she said, swirling the glass of wine between her thin fingers, "maybe for our wedding, we could do something more discreet. Nothing too flashy. Just something elegant, for close friends and family. What do you think? I spoke to your mother this morning, and she agreed, she said she supports us in everything, you know, she adores me."
The word "wedding" seemed to echo inside my head, like a distant bell.
I nodded calmly.
"Sounds perfect to me."
Lie.
Nothing seemed perfect.
Nothing seemed right.
But what else was there to do?
I was no longer a man to chase silly dreams. The real world demanded practical decisions. A wedding with Isadora would further consolidate my position. We would be the perfect couple in the eyes of society.
She smiled, satisfied with my answer, and stretched her hand across the table, touching mine. The touch was warm, soft. I accepted it.
During dinner, for a brief moment, I found myself thinking about Helen.
I wondered if she had already married that guy, that she had gone away. If he held her hand on nights like this, if she smiled at him the way she smiled at me, when we still believed that love could be enough.
I brush these thoughts away as if they were irritating mosquitoes.
Helen was the past.
Isadora was the present.
And the future? Well... the future would be built with conscious choices, not with impulses.
As I cut my steak, I heard Isadora commenting on the engagement ring.
"I've been thinking about the ring too," she said casually. "I know you have a whole network of wonderful designers at Moreau's. Maybe we should ask them to create something unique for us."
I smiled slightly.
"It's already taken care of."
And it was.
Helen was drawing the models at that very moment, without having the slightest idea who they were for. The irony of it was almost poetic. The same love that she despised... would now be celebrated in alliances created by her own hands. My stomach churned discreetly at the thought, but I kept my expression unchanged.
"Oh, my love, you are wonderful. You think of everything and solve it quickly," she said, with a calm smile.
"Always!"
Dessert was served.
Isadora chose a creme brûlee, I preferred just a strong coffee.
We talked a little more about travel, about business, about the reception we would plan. Every word, every smile, every gesture... all so impeccable that it seemed rehearsed.
When we finished, I paid the bill and then got up to pull out her chair. I accompanied her to the private elevator that would take us to the lobby.
On the way, she intertwined her arm with mine.
"I'm happy," she whispered. "Very happy. And I know we'll do great things together."
I looked at her.
So sure.
So sure of us.
I gave a light kiss on her forehead.
"Me too, Isadora," I lie.
And part of me wanted to believe it, really.
We got into the car that was waiting for us.
During the journey, Isadora rested her head on my shoulder and fell asleep softly.
I stared out the window.
The city lights passed quickly, like golden blurs. I thought about everything I had achieved. I thought about the man kneeling with a small box of alliances in his hands. I thought about the cold man I had become.
When we arrived, I helped Isadora out of the car, accompanied her to the door of her building, and said goodbye with a brief kiss on the cheek. We've been together for a year, and at no point have I had the courage to touch her intimately.
"I'll call you tomorrow," I promised.
She smiled, half asleep.
"I'll wait. Good night!" she went inside.
I stood for a moment, staring at the closed door.
Then I turned and got back into the car.
"Home, Mr. Moreau?" asked the driver.
"Home," I confirmed.
The car started, silently.
I leaned my head on the leather seat and closed my eyes.
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