"A Love That Lasts"

Chapter 8: CHAPTER 8: "At the Long Table"



The warmth of the dining room wrapped around Zayra like a gentle cloak, dispelling the Moscow chill that clung to her coat. Soft golden light spilled from a chandelier strung high above—a delicate lattice of crystal and brass that sparkled like winter stars. Beneath it, a long mahogany table stretched the length of the room, gleaming with polished depth. Silverware glimmered, the place settings precise, almost ceremonial. The scent of roasted lamb, dark wine, and rosemary wove through the air like a spell.

Zayra followed behindDr. Cecilia and Vladimir, her steps careful, her eyes wide. Every detail in the house whispered wealth—not just money, but old money, the kind that came with power and precision. The quiet was thick, almost sacred. Soft classical music drifted from a source unseen, threading through the silence like silk.

They entered the dining room just as a tall woman rose from the far end of the table.

Zayra blinked, momentarily struck by her presence. The woman moved with practiced grace, wearing a velvet navy-blue dress that caught the light like water. Her auburn hair was drawn into a tight, elegant bun, and she regarded Zayra with an unreadable expression.

"Zayra,"Dr. Cecilia said, "this is Alena—my daughter."

Zayra stepped forward, offering a gentle smile and small bow of her head. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Alena."

Alena arched a brow, then returned the smile, more curious than warm. "Please, just Alena. You're the nurse Mama's been going on about nonstop."

Zayra chuckled, her voice soft. "All good things, I hope."

"Too good," Alena replied with a dry lilt. "I was beginning to think you were made up."

They shared a small laugh—nothing forced. It wasn't instant friendship, but something shifted—ease, however slight.

And then—footsteps echoed across the marble floor.

Zayra turned.

A man entered, tall and composed, dressed in a black cashmere turtleneck and dark trousers that fit with effortless precision. His hair was a little tousled, like he'd run a hand through it moments before stepping in. He moved like someone who didn't need to announce himself.

Zayra felt her posture straighten without thinking.

His eyes met hers.

Only for a second.

But in that second, something subtle passed between them. Not warmth. Not tension. Just an awareness—as if recognizing something they didn't yet understand.

Dr. Cecilia's voice broke the moment. "Zayra, this is my son. Alaric."

Zayra stepped forward, masking the flutter in her chest. "Mr. Alaric. It's an honor."

"No need for formalities," he said, voice quiet but steady. "I'm just Alaric. Welcome to our home."

They shook hands—brief, cool, but something lingered. Not attraction. Not quite. But something real. A flicker of understanding. Two people who had seen storms and were still standing.

Alena chimed in, her tone teasing. "Careful, Alaric. She might outrank you soon."

"Highly possible," he said without missing a beat.

Laughter rippled around the table, light and easy.

They took their seats—Zayra between Alena and Dr. Cecilia, across from Alaric. Conversation flowed effortlessly around her. Alena spoke with practiced wit, Dr. Cecilia guided the mood with the precision of a conductor, and Vladimir occasionally added a low, thoughtful comment that anchored the room.

Zayra mostly listened, nodded, smiled—but she felt Alaric's gaze meet hers more than once. They didn't speak, not directly. Still, there was an unspoken current—like the slow rising of tide under calm water.

Later that night, dessert arrived—warm apple torte with a dollop of cream.

Zayra had just taken her first bite when Dr. Cecilia leaned closer, her voice low, intimate.

"You did well tonight," she said.

Zayra glanced at her, the weight of the evening settling into her shoulders. "Thank you. Your family is… not what I expected."

Dr. Cecilia smiled, her eyes glinting with something secretive. "Neither is yours, I imagine. But you're here now. And this—" she gestured subtly to the room, to the people, to the quiet threads of connection forming, "—this is where the real story begins."

Zayra looked across the table one more time.

Alaric wasn't watching her now—but somehow, she still felt seen.


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