Chapter 7: The Invitation
The dining room was too large for two people. It had always been too large, even when they'd hosted dinner parties for twenty, when the air had been thick with laughter and the clinking of glasses and the easy warmth of old friends. But this evening, with the chandelier casting its soft, merciless light over the long mahogany table, the space felt cavernous. A mausoleum dressed in linen and silver.
Leonid sat at one end, his posture impeccable, his suit jacket discarded on the back of his chair and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He was cutting his steak with methodical precision, each slice neat and even, as if the act of dividing meat into manageable portions was the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.
Jennie sat at the other end. Far enough away that she had to raise her voice to be heard over the silence, close enough that she could see the tension in his jaw, the way his knife scraped against the porcelain with a sound that set her teeth on edge.
Minho was upstairs, asleep in his nursery, monitored by the baby monitor that sat between them like a third presence. The little green light blinked steadily, a small comfort in a room that offered none.
"You're quiet tonight," Jennie said. Her voice came out softer than she intended, almost tentative.
Leonid glanced up, his dark eyes meeting hers across the expanse of white linen. "Am I?"
"You know you are."
He took a bite of his steak, chewed slowly, swallowed. "It's been a long day."
It had been. The morning's visit from Kai had hung over them like a storm cloud that refused to break, following them through the hours, darkening every room they entered. They had moved through their routines with careful precision—Jennie had attended a video conference, Leonid had made calls, they had taken turns with Minho—but the air between them had remained charged, electric with all the words they weren't saying.
The conversation they had promised to have, the one that was supposed to happen after Minho fell asleep, had not materialized. They had both avoided it, circling each other like wary animals, and now here they were, two people at opposite ends of a table that felt a thousand miles wide.
Leonid set down his knife and fork, the silver clinking against the plate with deliberate finality. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, folded it neatly, and placed it beside his plate. Then he looked at her, and there was something in his eyes that made her breath catch.
"I booked a villa," he said.
Jennie blinked. "What?"
"A villa. On the Amalfi coast. Outside of Positano, up in the hills. It's supposed to have an incredible view of the sea." His voice was calm, conversational, as if he were discussing the weather or the stock market. "Three bedrooms, a private pool, a garden full of lemon trees. I thought it might be good for us to get away for a while. Just me and Minho."
The fork slipped from Jennie's fingers, clattering against her plate with a sharp, discordant sound. She stared at him, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest.
"Just you and Minho," she repeated.
Leonid nodded, reaching for his glass of wine. He took a sip, savored it, set it down. "I thought you might enjoy some time to yourself. You've been under a lot of pressure lately, with the company and—" he paused, the slightest hesitation, "—everything else."
The words hung in the air between them, weighted with implication.
Jennie's throat tightened. "Leonid—"
"I've already arranged for the time off work. My assistant is handling the logistics. We leave on Friday." He picked up his knife and fork again, resuming his meal with the same unnerving composure. "I haven't booked a flight for you yet. I wasn't sure if you'd want to come, or if you have other obligations."
Other obligations. The phrase landed like a slap.
She gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles whitening. "What are you trying to say?"
Leonid looked up, and for a moment, a flicker of something raw passed through his eyes—pain, exhaustion, a deep and bleeding hurt. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, smoothed over by the mask he had perfected over years of practice.
"I'm saying that I'm going to take our son to Italy for a week. And I'm asking if you want to come with us." He paused, his gaze steady on hers. "Or if you'd rather stay here. Alone."
The words were simple, but they cut through her like glass.
Jennie's breath came shallow and quick. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, the familiar surge of anger and shame and desperate, clawing fear. She wanted to scream at him, to demand that he stop being so calm, so controlled, so maddeningly composed. She wanted to throw her plate against the wall and watch it shatter. She wanted to fall to her knees and beg him to forgive her.
She did none of those things.
Instead, she forced herself to breathe, to swallow the acid rising in her throat, to speak in a voice that barely trembled.
"You're punishing me," she said quietly.
Leonid's jaw tightened, just slightly. "I'm not punishing you, Jennie. I'm giving you a choice."
"A choice between what? Between going with you and being ignored, or staying here and being alone?"
"If that's how you see it, then maybe that tells you something."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Jennie pushed back from the table, her chair scraping against the marble floor with a sound like breaking bones. She stood, her hands shaking at her sides, her eyes burning with unshed tears.
"And what about us?" she demanded. "What about what we're supposed to be talking about? You said we would talk. You said something has to change. And now you're just—you're running away. Taking our son and running away."
Leonid set down his utensils, slowly, deliberately. He looked at her across the long expanse of the table, his expression unreadable.
"I'm not running away," he said. "I'm giving you space to figure out what you actually want. Because I'm tired, Jennie. I'm tired of pretending that everything is fine when it's not. I'm tired of walking on eggshells in my own home. I'm tired of feeling like I'm the only one fighting for this marriage."
His voice cracked on the last word, just slightly, and Jennie felt the sound like a physical blow.
"You think I'm not fighting?" she whispered.
"I think you're fighting for something different than I am." He rose from his chair, his movement unhurried, and walked around the table toward her. The distance between them shrank with each step, and Jennie felt her heart hammering in her chest, wild and desperate.
He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell the faint trace of his cologne, the clean, masculine scent that had been a comfort to her for as long as she could remember.
"I want to take our son to Italy," he said, his voice low. "I want to sit on a terrace overlooking the sea and watch him play in the sunshine. I want to remember what it feels like to be happy." He paused, his dark eyes searching hers. "I want to know if you want to be part of that memory. Or if you'd rather stay here and keep living in the shadow of everything that's gone wrong."
Jennie's breath hitched. The tears she had been fighting spilled over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks.
"Leonid, please—"
"Answer me, Jennie." His voice was soft, but it held no give. "Do you want to come with us?"
She looked at him, at this man she had loved since she was five years old, this man she had hurt in the worst possible way and who was somehow still standing in front of her, offering her a chance she didn't deserve.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I want to come."
Leonid studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, once, and turned away.
"I'll have my assistant book your flight," he said, his voice matter-of-fact. "We leave Friday at nine in the morning. Don't be late."
He walked out of the dining room, leaving her standing alone among the crystal and silver and the remnants of their dinner, the baby monitor's green light blinking steadily between them like a heartbeat.
Jennie sank back into her chair, her legs giving way beneath her. She pressed her hands to her face and let the sobs come, ugly and raw and desperate, the sound muffled by her palms.
She had gotten what she wanted. She was going to Italy with her husband and her son.
But as she sat there in the flickering candlelight, surrounded by the ghosts of their marriage, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was already too late. That Leonid had asked her the question not because he wanted her to say yes, but because he needed to hear her say it—to prove to himself that she still had a place in his life, that he could still choose her.
And she had said yes. She had chosen him.
But the look in his eyes as he walked away had not been relief or joy or even satisfaction.
It had been something closer to resignation. As if he had already accepted that the decision she made didn't matter. As if he had already moved on, even while standing in the same room as her.
Jennie wrapped her arms around herself, the cold settling into her bones, and wondered if she had just lost her husband without even knowing it.