Chapter Six — The Woman At The Table
Everything was perfect.
And therein lay the issue.
Zara had come to understand — after two long years of hard lessons — that perfection wasn't a final destination. It was more like the weather: fleeting, unpredictable, always hinting at the next change on the horizon. She had experienced perfection before, convinced it would last, only to find out how wrong she was, and the consequences had been significant.
She thought she had learned her lesson.
Or at least, she believed she had.
The tricky part about knowing better is that it doesn't shield you from feelings; it merely makes you conscious of them as they wash over you. She felt it — the gentle warmth of the past six weeks, the absence of constant scrutiny, the way Gerald's leaves had gone from four to five, then six, and were now inching toward seven, a steady growth that she found reassuring in most aspects of life.
She recognized that it was perfect.
She understood what that usually signified.
This time, she told herself, was different.
She said it with the calm assurance of someone who truly grasped the distinction — not the frantic pleading of someone trying to convince themselves, but the quiet confidence of someone who had observed enough to know how this moment differed from the past.
It was on a Tuesday morning, while she was in the midst of this self-talk, that she walked into Groundwork and froze.
He was there.
He was always there, and that wasn't the issue.
The issue was the woman sitting across from him at the table.
Not their table — his table, the one right across from the corner. But close enough. Close enough that it felt wrong before she even had time to figure out why.
She stood in the doorway of Groundwork, feeling the ground beneath her shift.
She didn't rush in right away. Instead, she lingered in the doorway for just a moment—not long enough to draw attention, not long enough to make a scene—just enough time to take in her surroundings and really process what she was seeing before stepping inside. The woman exuded polish and precision. Her dark hair was pulled back with such meticulousness that it hinted at both effort and routine—like someone who had perfected this look to the point where it felt second nature, yet still required a bit of work. She wore an expensive coat and held herself with the kind of posture that suggested she'd been taught to sit up straight from a young age, making it a part of her very being.
Leaning forward across the table, she spoke with an urgency that suggested she was delivering something significant—something rehearsed, something she had been gearing up to share. Daniel, on the other hand, was leaning back, arms crossed. His expression was one she had only seen once before—during that phone call about his father, in that fleeting moment before he regained his composure. It was the closed-off version of him, the kind that signaled he had decided that being open wasn't an option for this moment.
Bette appeared at Zara's side, having approached so quietly that Zara hadn't even noticed her arrival, which meant Bette had been waiting for her. "She was here when I opened," Bette said softly, her voice meant just for Zara. "She asked for him by name. She knew his schedule." There was a pause, heavy with meaning. "She had a suitcase with her. It's in the corner behind the counter."
Zara glanced over at the corner. A suitcase. Not just an overnight bag or a briefcase, but a proper suitcase—the kind you'd bring when you were planning to stay a while. She turned her gaze back to the woman sitting across from Daniel. "Who is she?" she asked quietly. Bette's expression spoke volumes. "Her name is Natalie," she replied.
The name hit her with a certain heaviness. Not because she recognized it—she didn't. After seven weeks filled with mornings, evenings, canal strolls, rainy market Saturdays, and kitchen chats with Gerald, Daniel had never once brought up a Natalie. That's what made it feel so heavy. It wasn't the name itself; it was the absence of it.
She ordered her latte from the counter—not from Bette, who had suddenly appeared elsewhere, moving with the kind of precision that showed she knew when to be around and when to step back—and settled into her corner table. Not their corner table, but the other one. The one she rarely chose, which put her at a different angle from his table.
She opened her laptop, avoiding eye contact with them.
She managed to hold out for about three minutes. The woman—Natalie—was still talking, still projecting that rehearsed urgency, leaning in like someone who had traveled far to say something important and wasn't going to leave until she did.
Daniel hadn't budged. He was still leaning back, the same wall-like presence, arms crossed, expression closed off.
Then he looked up.
Their eyes locked across the coffee shop.
Something shifted in his expression. It wasn't guilt—she was searching for guilt but didn't find it. It was something more intricate than that, like he was grappling with the reality of two significant things coexisting in the same space and not knowing how to navigate it.
She turned her gaze back to her laptop.
Her coffee arrived.
She sipped it without really tasting it.
She firmly reminded herself that she was a grown adult who wouldn't jump to conclusions about things she didn't fully grasp.
But deep down, she knew she was absolutely making assumptions.
Bette walked in with a tray of shortbread cookies. Zara hadn't asked for any.
"You seem like you could use something to keep your hands busy," Bette said softly.
"I'm fine," Zara replied.
"You've been staring at your laptop without actually reading anything for four minutes now," Bette pointed out.
Zara glanced at the shortbread.
"Fourteen months," Bette continued, taking a seat at the edge of the chair across from Zara in that rare way she did when something felt important. "She and Daniel were together for three years. That ended fourteen months ago." She held Zara's gaze steady. "I heard her introduce herself. I've been doing some math."
Zara took this in.
Three years. Ended fourteen months ago.
"He hasn't said anything about her," she remarked.
"No," Bette confirmed.
"Not to you, either."
"He doesn't like to talk about the past," Bette said. "You know that about him."
Zara did know. She had accepted it because she understood that he opened up slowly, and that his pace wasn't a reflection of his feelings but rather how long it took for him to feel safe enough to share.
But she hadn't known there was a Natalie.
She hadn't known about the three-year relationship that had ended fourteen months ago, now sitting in her coffee shop with a suitcase.
"What does she want?" Zara asked.
"I can't say," Bette replied. "But I know what a suitcase signifies." She stood up. "It means she didn't come here for a chat."
With that, she walked away.
Zara stared at the shortbread.
She took a bite.
Across the room, Daniel was still leaning back, while Natalie leaned forward, and the tension between them felt like something unresolved that had traveled a long way just to remain unresolved here.
He approached her table at eleven fifteen. Not right away — not the instant he spotted her, nor during the first hour. He made his move when Natalie stepped away to the bathroom, seizing the opportunity. He crossed the coffee shop and settled into the seat across from her. She shut her laptop, looked him in the eye, and waited.
"Her name is Natalie," he stated, straightforward and to the point.
"I know," she replied. "Bette mentioned it."
He took this in without showing any reaction. "We were together for three years. We broke up fourteen months ago." He held her gaze firmly. "I haven't spoken to her since. I had no idea she was coming here."
"How did she find out where you were?" Zara asked.
"Marcus's wife. They know each other socially." His jaw clenched. "I didn't know that either."
She studied him.
"What does she want?" she inquired.
He maintained eye contact. "She wants to give it another shot."
The coffee shop buzzed around them. Someone at the counter ordered something elaborate. Bette took her time. The espresso machine hissed. Everything felt ordinary, yet utterly irrelevant.
"What did you tell her?" Zara asked, her voice steady. She felt a sense of pride in her composure.
"I told her no." It came out quickly, directly, without hesitation. "I told her no because I'm with you. What Natalie and I had was real, but it's over, and I recognized that long before it officially ended."
She looked at him.
"But," she said.
Because there was a but. She sensed it — the unspoken weight hanging in the air around that word.
He gazed at her with an expression she hadn't seen before.
"There are things she knows about me," he said slowly. "Things I haven't shared with you."
The room fell into a heavy silence.
She felt the weight of the words settle in. Things I haven't shared with you. She pondered the idea of no more closed-off spaces between them. They hadn't explicitly promised anything—she and Daniel hadn't used those exact words or sat down to agree on full honesty. But she had taken it as an unspoken understanding between two people trying to navigate this relationship the right way. Both had experienced the fallout of keeping things hidden and had vowed not to go down that road again. She thought they were on the same page.
As she glanced at him from her corner table at Groundwork on that Tuesday morning, she asked softly, "How many rooms are still closed, Daniel?"
He met her gaze, unwavering. She noticed that he didn't look away, even though it would have been easier to do so.
"One," he replied. "There's one thing I haven't told you."
"Tell me."
"Not here." He glanced at the empty chair where Natalie would soon return. "Not like this, with her about to come back and Bette watching—" he hesitated. "Tonight. At your apartment. I'll tell you everything tonight."
She studied him. Every instinct she had honed over two years with someone who kept secrets kicked in all at once. Later. Tonight. Not now. Not here.
She recognized those words. She understood their potential. But she also knew Daniel. After seven weeks of paying close attention to him, she could tell the difference between a calculated diversion and a sincere request for a better time to talk.
This felt like a sincere request.
She was almost sure of it.
"Tonight," she confirmed.
"Yes." He held her gaze steady. "I'll handle Natalie first, then I'm coming to you. I promise I'll tell you everything."
With that, he returned to Natalie's table. Zara opened her laptop, staring at the screen without really seeing anything.
Natalie returned from the bathroom, walking through Groundwork with the kind of calm that suggested she had decided that was the best way to handle the moment. She didn't glance at Zara. Whether she was oblivious to her presence or simply choosing to ignore her, both options spoke volumes to Zara.
Taking her seat again across from Daniel, the conversation picked up where it left off. Meanwhile, Zara dove into her work. She was genuinely focused on the bookshop project, which had a client response waiting for her attention. She tackled the feedback, made the necessary revisions, and sent them off. Then she turned her attention to the hotel project that was starting to take shape, dedicating thirty minutes to really hone in on the color direction.
Throughout it all, she was aware of Natalie and Daniel, but not in an obsessive way. It was more of a background awareness, like someone who knows something significant is unfolding at a table just twelve feet away, yet chooses to let it play out without interference. She had learned to let things unfold naturally, and it was trickier than it seemed.
At twelve-thirty, Natalie stood up. She grabbed her bag—not the suitcase, but the handbag she had brought to the table. She exchanged a few words with Daniel that Zara couldn't catch. He replied, and she said something else before he responded briefly. Then, she walked out of Groundwork without casting a glance at Zara.
At the door, she hesitated for just a moment—just a fleeting second—before turning back to look. Not at Daniel, but at Zara. Their eyes locked across the coffee shop. Zara held the gaze steady, and Natalie maintained it for a heartbeat longer before she stepped through the door and disappeared.
Daniel approached her table without hesitation. He took a seat and locked eyes with her, looking more worn out than she had ever seen him—this wasn't just the fatigue from a long day; it was the deep emotional exhaustion that comes from a tough conversation.
"She's gone back to the hotel," he said.
"She's staying in Crestview," Zara replied.
"For now." He paused, his expression tightening. "I asked her to go home, but she said she wasn't ready to leave yet." His jaw clenched. "I can't force her to leave the city."
"No," Zara agreed, meeting his gaze.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
She took a moment to reflect. "I don't know yet," she admitted. "I'm waiting to find out. I think I'll have a clearer idea tonight after you tell me what you need to say."
He nodded slowly. "That's fair."
"Daniel."
"Yes?"
"I want to be clear," she said carefully. "I'm not going anywhere. Whatever it is you need to tell me, I'm staying put until I hear it. I won't make any decisions until then."
She noticed a shift in his expression, a hint of relief washing over him as if he had been bracing for a different reaction.
"Thank you," he said.
"Don't thank me just yet," she replied. "Thank me after."
He almost smiled, a flicker of it crossing his face. "After," he agreed.
He left Groundwork not long after that.
Zara stayed until two, fully immersed in her work on the hotel project, making real strides. She focused on the task at hand, letting it occupy her mind instead of the anticipation of what tonight would bring.
She was good at this.
She had learned to excel at it.
Bette brought her lunch without her even having to ask.
She ate it.
And she waited for tonight.
She spent her afternoon tidying up her apartment. Not because it was a mess—far from it, really. It was quite neat; she wasn't the type to let things get chaotic. She kept a decent standard of cleanliness. But for her, cleaning was a way to keep her hands busy, and they definitely needed something to do. Plus, the end result would be a sparkling clean apartment, which wasn't a bad way to spend a tough afternoon.
She tackled the space behind the couch.
It was something she'd been meaning to do for weeks but had kept putting off. Today, though, she dove in with the kind of focused energy that comes from having a lot on your mind and choosing to channel it into cleaning rather than dwelling on feelings.
Next, she wiped down the kitchen window.
Standing there, looking out at the brick wall doing its usual thing, she felt a particular kind of waiting. It wasn't anxious waiting—she had made a conscious choice not to let it become that. She decided that anxiety wasn't the right response to something she didn't fully grasp yet. Just waiting. Being present with the uncertainty until clarity came.
She sent a quick text to Layla.
Not the whole story, just a simple: Something is happening. I'll fill you in when I know more.
Layla replied in less than a minute: Are you okay?
She paused to think. Yes. Just waiting.
Layla: I'm here if you need anything.
I know. Thanks.
She set her phone down.
Her gaze drifted to Gerald on the windowsill.
Seven leaves now.
She had meant to count them earlier but hadn't gotten around to it until now. Seven leaves. Steady. Not forced. Just—growing. Despite the brick wall, the limited light, the radiator, and all the challenges that come with a windowsill in a Crestview apartment.
She found this, as always, genuinely uplifting.
He showed up at seven-thirty. She heard the familiar sound of his key turning in the lock and got up from the couch, where she had been sitting with a book that had barely captured her attention for the last forty minutes. Making her way to the kitchen, she turned on the kettle, needing something to occupy her hands, and tea felt just right for this evening.
When he walked through the door, his eyes found her instantly. She met his gaze. He looked a bit better than he had earlier in the day—not exactly great, but the weariness seemed to have lessened. It was as if he had spent the afternoon sorting through whatever was on his mind, and that reflection had made a difference.
"Hi," she greeted him.
"Hi." He stepped into the kitchen doorway, glancing at the kettle. "Tea."
"Take a seat," she replied. "I'll handle it."
He settled down at her kitchen table. She prepared the tea, pouring it into two nice ceramic mugs—the ones she had picked up from that market stall on a rainy Saturday. Carrying the steaming mugs to the table, she sat across from him and waited.
He focused on the tea, then shifted his attention back to her.
"There's something I should have told you weeks ago," he began. "I've been waiting for the right moment, but it never came. I realize now that I've been using the lack of a perfect moment as an excuse to avoid saying what I've been afraid to say."
She listened intently.
"I'm going to tell you everything now," he continued. "And then you can decide what you want to do with it."
She held his gaze steady.
"Okay," she said softly.
He took a deep breath and started to speak.
He talked for what felt like ages. As the evening wore on, the room grew darker around them. She didn't switch on the lamp right away, letting the October dusk seep in slowly and completely. Eventually, she got up, turned on the lamp, and settled back down, while he continued to speak.
He recounted the case that had set everything in motion. It was early in his career, one of the first significant cases he had taken on solo. He had a client who was guilty—he realized that within two weeks of accepting the case. Still, he defended him because that was his job; defense lawyers were expected to present the best possible case for every client, no matter what they personally believed.
He had done just that. He had won.
But six months later, a man named Robert Callum, who had lost all his retirement savings to Daniel's client, took his own life.
"I didn't cause that," Daniel said, his voice steady. "I know that legally. I understand it logically. But I haven't been able to shake it off—I've carried it with me for years. It lingers, and it just won't fade away."
She remained silent, holding onto it, just as her mother had described.
"Natalie was with me when I learned about Robert Callum," he continued. "She stood by me during the aftermath. She's been holding onto it ever since." He paused for a moment. "Tonight, she mentioned that it wasn't the only thing she was holding. She said there was something more, something she discovered recently."
He looked at her, searching for answers.
"She wouldn't tell me what it was."
The kitchen fell into a deep silence.
Zara sat there, grappling with it all. The Robert Callum case, the weight of it, and that mysterious thing Natalie was clutching but wouldn't name. She took a moment, just like she had learned to do with heavy matters that needed contemplation instead of a quick reaction.
"The Robert Callum case," she finally broke the silence. "How long have you been carrying this burden?"
"Seven years," he replied.
"Seven years, all by yourself."
"Natalie knew. She was the only one."
She nodded slowly, absorbing the gravity of his words. "And now you've shared it with me."
"And now I've shared it with you."
Across the kitchen table, with the lamp casting a warm glow between them, the October night loomed outside, Gerald perched on the windowsill, and their tea growing cold in the ceramic mugs.
"Thank you," she said softly.
He looked at her, as if waiting for more, for what came after the gratitude.
"For telling me," she continued. "Even when it was tough. Even when there wasn't a perfect moment, and you had to create one." She held his gaze steady. "This is what I meant when I said no more hiding."
"I know," he replied quietly. "I should have opened up sooner."
"Yes," she agreed. "But you're telling me now."
He let out a slow, controlled breath, like someone finally releasing a long-held secret.
"There's still the other thing," he said. "Whatever it is that Natalie knows but wouldn't share with me."
"We'll tackle that when we find out what it is."
"You're not —" he hesitated. "You're not more worried?"
She met his eyes directly. "I am worried. But I'm not panicking. There's a difference." She held his gaze firmly. "Whatever Natalie knows, Daniel, we'll face it together. Do you understand?"
He looked back at her.
"Yes," he said. "I understand."
Her phone buzzed, breaking the silence. They both glanced at it resting on the table, the screen lighting up with an unknown number. She reached for it, her heart racing. A message appeared—just four words that sent a chill through her chest: I know about her. She read it once, then again, her eyes darting up to Daniel.
"What?" he asked, his voice sharp. He was already on his feet, a calm facade masking the urgency beneath. "Zara. What does it say?"
She turned the phone toward him, letting him read the message. She studied his face as he processed the words, watching a whirlwind of emotions flash across his features—reading, understanding, calculating. Then, something she had never seen before flickered in his eyes. It wasn't the usual composed mask he wore; it was something deeper, something that resembled real fear.
"Daniel," she said softly, "Who is her?"
He met her gaze, and for the first time in all the months they had shared—through the canal, Owen, Robert Callum, and everything else—he didn't have an immediate answer. He sank slowly into a chair, his hands resting on the table.
She looked at those hands—the same ones that had held hers in a rain-soaked market, the ones that had cradled her face with such tenderness, the ones that had always been gentle with what mattered. They were unnaturally still.
"Daniel," she repeated, her voice steady. "Tell me."
He looked at her, his expression a mix of emotions she couldn't quite name. Then he finally spoke: "Her name is Claire."
A pause stretched out, feeling like an eternity. "She is eight years old."
Another pause hung in the air. "She is my daughter."
The kitchen fell into a heavy silence. Outside, October continued its routine, but inside, everything had shifted. She stared at him, and he returned her gaze. And in that moment, the real story—the one hidden beneath the surface—finally began.
She didn't respond right away. Over the past seven weeks, and the two years before that, and the twenty-four years leading up to this moment, she had learned that jumping into conversation wasn't always the best way to handle big news. Sometimes, the most crucial thing you could do was just take it in before reacting. And that's exactly what she did.
Claire. Eight years old. His daughter.
She glanced at him, sitting at her kitchen table, hands resting on the surface, his face completely unguarded—more vulnerable than she had ever seen him, stripped of all defenses, revealing the raw truth he usually kept hidden for when he had nothing left to control.
"Tell me," she urged.
Not "What is this?" or "Why didn't you tell me?"—none of those typical responses. Just, "Tell me."
And he did.
Claire had come into the world during a tough time. He had already shared the story of the relationship—one he hadn't been fair in, one he clung to because he couldn't bear the thought of being alone. Her name was Sophie. They had lasted eight months after Claire was born before it all fell apart.
The custody arrangement. The fourteen months it took to finalize everything. The weekend visits and the three weeks in summer.
"She lives with Sophie, three hours north," he explained. "I see her every other weekend. I've been seeing her the whole time I've been in Crestview."
Zara took this in.
"The weekends you weren't here," she said slowly.
"Yeah."
"You were with Claire."
"Exactly."
She stared at him.
"You have an eight-year-old daughter," she said softly. "And Natalie knows. And she's threatening to tell me."
"Yeah," he replied.
"Why is that a threat, Daniel?"
He met her gaze.
"Because," he said carefully, "there's something about Claire I haven't told you either."
The lamp was glowing softly.
The tea had gone cold.
Gerald perched on the windowsill, surrounded by his seven leaves.
She glanced at Daniel across the kitchen table, feeling that unique sensation of standing on the brink of something significant — that acute awareness of a moment poised to split into before and after.
"Tell me," she urged.
And he did.
Claire was unwell.
A rare autoimmune condition had been diagnosed fourteen months ago. Manageable — he had said this first, almost as if he needed her to grasp this fact before the heavier news came. Manageable, with treatment underway, and the doctors were cautiously optimistic.
But serious.
Serious enough that her care demanded consistency and stability, which was why he had been so careful about bringing new people into her life; it wasn't just about emotional caution.
It was about her health.
Zara sat completely still.
She reflected on those fourteen months prior — before Crestview, before Groundwork, before the corner table and the notebook. She thought of a man who had come to the city with a case to handle, a legal pad in hand, dark eyes filled with concern, and a daughter who was ill, carrying a burden all on his own.
She pondered the composure he had shown.
Now, she understood that composure in a way she hadn't before. It wasn't the natural calm of someone who felt nothing; it was the deliberate steadiness of a person who had decided that this particular burden needed to be managed because there was no one else to share it.
She reached across the table, placing her hand over his.
He looked at her hand, then met her gaze.
"I should have told you," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes," she replied. "But Daniel —" she held his gaze firmly. "I am still here."