"Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?" he murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive curve of my neck, sending a pleasant shiver down my spine.
I laughed softly and looked up at him, unable to stop myself.
A lamplight glowed just above us, casting everything in warm gold. Somewhere nearby, waves crashed gently against the rocky shore, their rhythm weaving through the quiet street we stood on. His arms circled my waist with easy familiarity, while mine rested loosely around his neck, as if they had always belonged there.
To anyone passing by, we must've looked like a couple, hopelessly in love, and we were. My feet stood stop his as he swayed us slowly, gently, as if we were dancing to music only we could hear. The wind, the waves, the night itself seemed to hum along for us.
"You've probably said that to a thousand other women," I teased.
It wouldn't have surprised me if he had. He was the kind of man who could turn heads without trying, the kind who never lacked attention. Why he had chosen to chase someone like me had always felt like a small miracle.
Maybe in my old, I could see it. Now, not so much.
"No, I don't," he said with a quiet laugh, tilting my chin upward before pressing a gentle kiss to my lips. "There's only you."
And for that fleeting moment, under the lamplight and the stars, I believed him completely.
My hand brushed the skirt of my red dress, smoothing it as if to dust off something invisible. He had even kept my old clothes, the same ones I had moved straight into the villa he bought shortly after we married. Somehow, they had found their way back into my apartment, arranged exactly as I had left them.
Nothing disturbed. Nothing forgotten.
This must've been where he'd come for them, then. When he had kept me captive in his mansion, the first time. Now that my memories had returned, I knew where he had obtained the few pieces he had laid out on my bed for me to wear, every morning.
God, time flies when you were being stalked by your ex-husband. Or husband, I supposed. Since we were never really divorced, just married under a fake identity. A borrowed life that somehow become permanent.
A knock at the door pulled me back into the present.
I crossed the room and opened it. Alexandre was standing there in a navy polo and dark trousers, looking all familiar and yet, unreadable. He looked like my old Alex.
He held out his hand. "Ready?"
I placed mine in his.
"Yes, ready."
He nodded, fingers closing in around mine and guided me out the door of my room, through the door of my old apartment, then down the narrow stairwell. His hand firm at my elbow, steady without asking permission.
When we reached the street, he hooked my arm through his as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Dubrovnik at night was almost reverent. With its old stone streets stretching ahead, pale and worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, nearly empty at this hour. Lampposts casting warm pools of light against limestone, their glow catching on shuttered windows and archways that had once witnessed empires rise and fall.
Our footsteps echoed softly, the sound intimate in the quiet.
"We used to do this often," he said, nostalgia threading quietly through his voice.
And I felt it then, the ache of familiarity, sharp and immediate.
A part of me wanted to tell him the truth. But I couldn't. Not now. Not when everything between us was still so fragile. Not when I still had no idea what he was planning, or what he was capable of once he knew I remembered.
"We did?" I asked, keeping my face carefully neutral, my gaze fixed ahead as we moved through the narrow streets. The wind threaded through my hair, raising goosebumps along my skin, so I drew my black cardigan closer around me, grateful for the thin barrier it provided.
"Yes. Almost every night we went out to dinner," he said, his mouth tightening slightly. "Sometimes with your colleagues. Sometimes when you brought tourists along."
"What if they recognize me?" I asked.
"They won't," he said it with a certainty that allowed no room for doubt, guiding me smoothly around a corner. "The couple who owned it had sold the establishment to someone else."
"Let me guess," I said, watching our feet move in step along the cobblestones, "it was you?"
He chuckled and shook his head, his lips curling just enough to reveal the dimples he so rarely showed. The sight of them struck me unexpectedly, a dull ache blooming in my chest. "Sadly, no. Even I have my limits. Someone else had bought it, renamed it, even, but everything else stayed the same."
I nodded, already knowing exactly where he was taking me. I kept my face carefully blank, because even I couldn't trust myself to act surprised. Not when my chest was still tight with a familiar, unforgiving ache.
Grief for what might have been. Sadness for what we had become. For the quiet, irreversible way everything had fallen apart.
"Here we are," he said, pulling me gently from my thoughts.
I turned, then stopped.
My lips parted before I could stop myself. It was as if a memory I had buried so deeply, had decided to step out of my mind and into the world, fully formed and unforgiving. My grip on his arm tightened despite myself. I clenched my jaw, willing my breathing to remain steady.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
The restaurant sat tucked into the curve of the old street, modest and unassuming. Wooden chairs were stationed outside, their legs uneven against the cobblestones. Small round tables lit by soft ambler lamps.
There were only a handful of patrons sat scattered beneath the glow. Couples leaning close, glasses of wine catching the light, low laughter drifting lazily into the night. Ivy crept along the stone wall beside the entrance, and the scent of warm bread, olive oil and the sea lingering in the air.
Nothing about it was extravagant. That was what made it perfect. It felt untouched by time. As if the world had moved on, but this place had quietly refused to.
Alex slowed beside me, his voice lowering, losing its practiced edge. He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear.
"This," he murmured, almost reverently, "is where you brought me on our first date."
I know.
I wanted to tell him. but didn't.
God, how I want to.
Because I remembered. And because no matter how hard I tried, there were some places that can never let you pretend you were someone else.