Chapter 4 - The Diner Floor
Three neighborhoods over, far away from the polished marble and high-rise glass of Calloway's headquarters, the air smelled of bleach, burned coffee, and damp aprons.
Vera wiped down a Formica table with steady, rhythmic motions. Her feet throbbed inside her flat shoes, and her hands were chapped from the industrial dish soap, but for the first time in four years, her mind was entirely her own.
When the door of the diner chimed, she didn't look up immediately. She assumed it was another late-night regular looking for a slice of pie before close.
"Table or counter?" she asked without raising her eyes.
"Neither," a familiar, low voice replied.
Vera froze. The damp rag slipped from her fingers, landing softly on the sticky tabletop.
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Marcus stood just inside the threshold of the diner. He wasn't wearing his tailored suit jacket; his sleeves were rolled up, and the rain was plastered against his dark hair. He looked entirely out of place among the vinyl booths and neon Schlitz signs, yet he filled the small space with the same quiet, undeniable gravity that had once made her fall in love with him.
He looked down at her worn apron, her chapped hands, and the simple silver band still resting on her left ring finger.
