The Dinner Invitation

I don't know what I expected when I came home and saw Blake standing by the windows, dressed down in rolled-up sleeves and that frustratingly calm expression he always wore when he was thinking too much. But when he turned to me and smiled, I felt it in places I hadn't allowed myself to acknowledge before.

It was easier to blame the flowers.

The first bouquet had caught me completely off guard. Soft pink roses wrapped in silk and delivered with a note that had my breath catching before I even finished reading. I hadn't smiled that hard in weeks. Not genuinely. Not without it costing me something.

The second bouquet arrived with peonies and a card that simply read: Still trying. Still hoping – B.

By the third day, I had already cleared space on the console in my office. My staff started greeting the delivery guy by name.

But it wasn't just the flowers.

It was what they meant.

Blake wasn't just trying to make this marriage palatable. He was reaching for something deeper, something fragile and real—and I could no longer pretend I wasn't reaching back.

So I did the one thing I had never done before.

I invited a man to dinner.

Not a networking dinner. Not a political move. Not a family obligation.

Just dinner.

With him.

I had Sarah book a private chef, picked out the wines myself, and even went so far as to approve a playlist to run quietly in the background—French jazz, something Evelyn always played when we visited her. It reminded me of soft evenings and velvet laughter, and I wanted this dinner to feel like a step forward, not another deal negotiated at arm's length.

When Blake answered my greeting with that quiet, "Hi," it melted something in me.

His eyes were the same slate gray I'd stared into across boardrooms, except now they looked… open. Still guarded, yes. But not closed off.

"I meant what I wrote," he said when I thanked him for the flowers.

"I know," I replied, and I meant that too.

There wasn't much else to say in that moment. So I smiled. Told him I'd see him Saturday. Then I went to my room and closed the door—part of me hoping he'd follow. Part of me glad he didn't. We were learning how to breathe in the same space without unraveling.

And that mattered.

The next morning, I woke earlier than usual. I was restless. Nervous. Maybe even a little excited, though I wasn't ready to admit that out loud. I pulled on workout clothes and headed to the gym in our building, choosing the farthest treadmill from the window, needing to sweat out the swirl of emotions tightening in my chest.

He was changing. Or maybe I was. Or maybe we both were.

It scared me, how quickly the ice between us was thinning. But it also thrilled me.

When I returned, I found a note on the kitchen counter.

Gone to the office early. Didn't want to wake you. See you tonight – B.

I traced the ink with my fingertip before folding the note and tucking it into the back pocket of my planner. I wasn't ready to talk about how much that small gesture meant.

By late afternoon, I was in full prep mode.

I chose a dress that was elegant but not showy—cream satin, with a low back and soft neckline. Simple. Sophisticated. Vulnerable in its own way.

Sarah had stayed late to help me finalize the table arrangement. She smiled as she stepped back, admiring the candles I'd lit.

"You look… excited," she said cautiously.

I raised a brow. "I look composed."

She smirked. "Composed with a hint of butterflies."

I didn't deny it.

At exactly seven, the elevator chimed.

I heard the door open, footsteps, and then his voice.

"You look stunning."

I turned slowly. Blake stood there in a crisp navy shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled, a bottle of red wine in hand. He looked at me like I was something to be discovered, not owned.

"I almost texted to cancel," I said lightly, "but then I remembered you'd probably still show up."

"Correct."

He crossed the room and handed me the wine.

"Gift?" I asked.

"Apology," he said. "For not coming back to your room that night."

I stilled.

"You don't owe me an apology for being careful," I said. "But I won't lie—I wanted you to knock."

He smiled. "I wanted to."

There was nothing else to say. At least, not with words. So I gestured toward the dining table, where the chef had just finished plating the starters.

Dinner passed in a warm blur of good food, shared glances, and the kind of conversation that didn't feel like work. We talked about our childhoods—his obsession with puzzles, my habit of making lists even as a kid. We laughed over childhood embarrassments, argued over music preferences, and compared notes on the worst media headlines we'd ever received.

But through it all, I couldn't stop watching him.

Blake Aldridge, the man I had once sworn to hate, was unfolding before me like a story I wanted to read again and again.

When dessert came, we lingered.

The chef packed up quietly. Sarah had long since gone. It was just us, and soft music, and the warmth of flickering candles.

"I don't want this to end," I said, surprised by my own honesty.

Blake leaned back, watching me with eyes that saw too much. "Then let's not let it."

It was simple.

And terrifying.

And maybe perfect.