What's Left of Our Hearts

Red for Danger

The following night, Clara found herself in her closet again, standing in front of the same mirror, facing the same dilemma.

"I have nothing to wear," she huffed in the empty room. She had done her makeup, straightened her hair—and even shaved—and the cumulative guilt of putting in all that effort for a dinner she should not be going to, with a man she should not even be speaking to, had her in a headlock. It had become a living thing that whispered in her ear with a wet, raspy breath. Don't you dare wear the red dress. Clara ran a finger down the cherry-colored fabric and, with a groan, decisively grabbed the LBD hanging next to it. Modest. Understated. I'm-not-trying-at-all-for-you: That was the message she wanted to send. The little treacherous voice that piped up anytime Dom was the topic laughed, too late for that, birdie. She briefly wondered why the voice sounded like a chainsmoking speakeasy pianist from the 20s as she zipped the dress halfway up. She walked up to Owen's desk and pushed her hair aside. He carried on typing, oblivious until she cleared her throat. "Honey?"

"Oh, yes, sorry," he fumbled with the zipper and closed it all the way up. His hands never lingered down her back the way she'd have liked them to, merely completed the task and returned to the keyboard.

With a sigh, she slipped her heels on and grabbed her keys. "I shouldn't be long," she said. Owen uh-huh'ed absently.

I am simply going to go there and tell him that this is not going to work. I won't stay for dinner, I will say what I have to say and I will be on my way. Time to get out of this mess.

Clara spent the whole ride down to 53rd street failing at breathing exercises, wringing her fingers, smoothing her hair, picking at invisible lint on her black dress. She patted herself on the shoulder for choosing knee-length. Walking into the bar at the Baccarat hotel, she was bathed in subtle luminescence bouncing off every surface—the inky polished walls, the checkerboard floor clean enough to eat off of, each glass-topped table and mirror-lined shelf. Subdued conversations were accented by the clink of crystals along the lobby and all the way through the bar that beckoned under a domed ceiling dripping with crystal chandeliers like the most luxurious grape boughs Clara had ever seen. It was a light crowd for a Saturday, but Dominic would have been easy to spot even in a roomful of people. He had this way of drawing the eye towards him, like a European oil painting in a roomful of colorless stone busts.

"Clara," he rose when she approached him. "I wasn't sure you'd come," he said, glancing down at his feet. The bashful look he gave her made him look younger. It triggered some memory that Clara sharply suppressed.

"I didn't think I would either," she admitted.

"I made us a reservation at La Grenouille, so we can walk over there now and be right on time," he said.

"Dom, hold on," she touched his arm lightly. He turned to face her, an inquisitive eyebrow raised. "I can't have dinner with you."

"Why not?" he sounded genuinely surprised.

"You know why," she said. She squared her shoulders, before her courage left her, and spoke as if someone had set a timer for seven seconds. "I think it will be best if I recuse myself from the engagement entirely. Sophie will have to handle things moving forward, and I..." she looked down at her hands. "I can't do this." She felt lighter and heavier. It was time to get herself out of this mess with as much of her heart and sanity intact, even though it was a bit late on both accounts.

"I see," he said after a long pause. "I will not convince you to stay for dinner. You've clearly made up your mind—about everything—and I doubt we'll see each other again after tonight. So," he took a deep breath, "why don't we just get a drink and part if not as friends, then at least on amicable terms. Please?" he asked with a gesture to the chair next to his, so politely that Clara found herself nodding.