Chapter 3 - The Black Dress and the River North Trap
Executing Michael’s plan required precision, timing, and a complete absence of hesitation. We couldn't just casually bump into Daniel and Rachel; they were currently hiding out somewhere in the Caribbean or on the West Coast, basking in their cowardly getaway. But we knew with absolute certainty that they were monitoring our social circles through mutual friends and digital footprints.
Forty-eight hours after our late-night phone call, Michael and I put Operation Retribution into motion.
We chose a venue calculated to cause maximum psychological damage: Aurelia, an upscale, notoriously exclusive Italian restaurant in River North. It was Rachel’s absolute favorite spot in the city. It was the exact restaurant she and Daniel frequented to celebrate anniversaries, promotions, and birthdays, and it was the place where Rachel had dragged me just a month prior to gush about how "secure" her life was.
I spent two hours getting ready, channeling every ounce of lingering heartbreak into cold, calculating preparation. I slipped into a form-fitting, sleeveless black cocktail dress that Daniel had always loudly complained was "too dramatic" and "too distracting" for polite society. I swept my hair up into a sharp, elegant chignon, applied a bold red lip, and strapped on towering stilettos.
When Michael picked me up downstairs in his sleek sedan, he looked equally formidable. Dressed in a charcoal-tailored Armani suit with an unbuttoned crisp white shirt, the dark stubble along his jawline only added to his dangerous, brooding aura. When he opened my car door and looked at me, his breath genuinely hitched for a fraction of a second.
"You look..." Michael started, clearing his throat. "Incredible."
"You clean up tolerably well yourself, Morgan," I replied smoothly, sliding into the passenger seat.
Michael had booked the exact corner booth—Table 42—that Rachel used to frantically text me to reserve whenever she and Daniel planned a date night. It offered a sweeping view of the main dining room, ensuring maximum visibility.
We didn't take a single selfie. We didn't post a coordinated photograph on Instagram or tag our location; doing so would look desperate, forced, and transparently fake. Instead, we played our parts with chilling, effortless authenticity. We ordered a bottle of expensive Barolo, shared a plate of handmade truffle gnocchi, and leaned across the candlelit table, murmuring to each other with smoldering intensity. We talked about mundane things—mortgage rates, local architecture, and my father’s improving heart labs—but to anyone watching from across the room, our body language screamed an intoxicating, undeniable romance.
We didn't have to wait long for the trap to spring.
Nineteen minutes into our appetizer course, I noticed a flash of movement near the hostess stand. One of Rachel’s former graphic design coworkers, a notoriously chatty social butterfly named Chloe, had just been seated with a group of friends.
I caught Chloe’s eye across the dimly lit room. Her jaw literally dropped. She froze mid-sentence, elbowed the person sitting next to her, and whipped out her smartphone, holding it at chest level under the table while pretending to check a text message.
Michael noticed my subtle smirk and leaned in close, his warm breath brushing against my ear. "She’s taking pictures, isn't she?"
"She's currently drafting a group chat message to every single person who attended our wedding," I murmured back, not breaking eye contact with him. "Smile for the camera, darling."
May you like
Michael chuckled, a rich, genuine sound, and reached across the white tablecloth to gently trace his thumb over my knuckles. The electric contact sent an unexpected, startling jolt shooting straight up my forearm. I forced my breathing to remain steady, refusing to let him see how easily his touch rattled my defenses.
By the time the tiramisu arrived, my phone sitting face-up on the table began to vibrate like a nest of angry hornets.
