Femi returned a few minutes later, pocketing his phone. He slid back into his seat, and immediately his attention returned to me. The hand on my knee. The wine glass refilled. The way he angled his body toward mine, creating an invisible wall between us and the rest of the table.
I wanted to scream.
Dessert came and went. Coffee was served. Slowly, the evening wound down. Sebastian called for the check. People began gathering their things.
I excused myself to the restroom, taking longer than necessary. When I returned, the table was nearly empty. My mother and grandmother had already left. Sebastian and Aria were saying goodbye to Kim and Xavier.
Femi was still there. Waiting.
I walked outside without acknowledging him. The night air was cool, a welcome relief after the stuffy warmth of the restaurant. I stood on the sidewalk, waiting for my car to arrive.
Was I proud of the way I’d handled dinner? Not particularly. I wished I’d been more mature about it. But it wasn’t the time to talk to him either. Everyone would have been terribly uncomfortable if Femi and I had brought our relationship troubles to the table.
Well, it was for the best. If he actually wanted to make things right, he should come to me.
Minutes passed, and I started stomping my foot impatiently. My car still hadn’t come. What in God’s name was taking so long?
Femi appeared beside me, casual, hands in his pockets. "Everything alright?"
I turned to face him. He was smiling… no, he was grinning. I knew that look. "What did you do?"
"What do you mean?"
"My car. It was supposed to be here. I know this is your doing."
He had the audacity to look innocent. "That's odd. Have you tried calling your driver?"
"Femi."
He shrugged. One shoulder. That infuriating half-shrug that said he knew exactly what he'd done and wasn't sorry about it.
"Let me give you a ride home. It's late. You shouldn't be waiting out here alone."
"I'll walk."
"In those heels?" His eyebrow arched. "That's eight blocks at least."
I turned and started walking, my heels clicking sharply on the pavement.
My shoes were not made for city sidewalks. Within half a block, I could feel the concrete through the thin soles, each step a small punishment for my stubbornness.
Femi fell into step beside me. Of course, he did.
"This is ridiculous," he said. "Let me drive you home."
"No."
"Isabelle—"
"Did you send my driver home?"
"I just redirected him. There’s a difference."
"Is there?"
We walked in silence for a moment. The city hummed around us—taxis, pedestrians, the distant wail of a siren, the particular rhythm of New York at night.
"I'm sorry," he said finally. "For all of it. The phone call. The silence afterward. Showing up in Milan like that was enough to fix everything."