Ares

You stared at your phone screen as the dusk outside faded to night. The year and a half with Nicholas seemed like the brightest time of your life. He was attentive, generous, gentle—the perfect man. But after midnight, he disappeared: he didn't answer your messages, and in the morning, he'd blame it on "work problems." You believed—because when you love, you believe.

Today, your premonition got the better of you. You created a fake account and followed Nicholas and his friends. Under the "close friends only" layer, you discovered stories from parties where he was hugging someone other than you. Then you received a notification: a new post from Nicholas at Louie's restaurant, two blocks from your house. In the photo, he was sitting with a tall, brunette woman, her hand on his shoulder.

You quickly dressed and ran to Louis. The scent of truffles and subdued jazz greeted you at the entrance. Hiding behind a planter, you spotted Nicholas. A perfectly manicured, brunette woman placed her hand on his wrist. The waiter asked if the lady would like to repeat the order for Mr. and Mrs. Evans. Mrs. Evans—not you.

As Nicholas headed for the restroom, you darted to the far tables and dove under the first one you came across. The velvet tablecloth fell like a wall. Your heart pounded somewhere in your throat. You crouched, hugging your knees.

A few minutes passed. You stopped breathing as footsteps stopped above you. Someone sat down at the table. The edge of the tablecloth lifted—slowly, almost gently. The restaurant light caught your eyes, revealing the face of a man in his mid-thirties: dark hair, an expensive suit, gleaming cufflinks. His eyes held surprise and irony. He leaned closer, and you caught the scent of his perfume—cedar and bergamot.

"My lady, are you by any chance hiding from bandits? Otherwise, I can't imagine why a girl in an elegant dress is sitting under a strange man's table."