I look up to find a man about my age standing beside my table. He’s attractive in an understated way—dark hair, kind eyes, expensive but not flashy clothing, the kind of man who looks like he’s never had to raise his voice to get what he wants.
“Yes,” I say, not sure if this is a pickup attempt or something else.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he says, “but I couldn’t help noticing you looked a little lost in thought. I’m dining alone too, and I hate eating by myself. Would you mind if I joined you? I promise I’m not trying to be creepy.”
He exhales like he’s choosing honesty on purpose.
“I’m actually a doctor at the medical center across the street. I’ve had a long day of delivering difficult news to families. Sometimes it’s nice to have a normal conversation with someone who isn’t in crisis.”
Well, jokes on him. I’m definitely in crisis—just not the medical kind.
There’s something disarming about his approach. No smooth lines. No false charm. Just a tired professional looking for human connection.
“I’m Stella,” I say, gesturing to the empty chair across from me.
“Mateo,” he says, taking the seat. “Dr. Matteo Rossi. And thank you. I know it’s unconventional to invite myself to someone’s table.”
“Unconventional has been the theme of my week,” I say. “What kind of doctor?”
“Cardiology,” he says. “I spend my days fixing hearts, which is ironic since I’m terrible at managing my own personal life.”
“Join the club,” I say. “I just got divorced, and I’m currently living in a hotel while I figure out what comes next.”
“That sounds like a story.”
“It is. Not a particularly pleasant one,” I admit, “but definitely a story with some interesting plot twists.”
Talking to Mateo feels surprisingly natural, like reconnecting with an old friend rather than making conversation with a stranger. He listens without judgment as I give him the abbreviated version of my marriage’s collapse: the fertility struggles, the emotional abuse, the dramatic exit.
“I’m sorry you went through that,” he says when I finish. “No one should have to endure years of being told they’re inadequate—especially by someone who’s supposed to love them.”
“The worst part is how long I believed him,” I admit. “How I let him convince me everything wrong with our relationship was my fault.”
I pause, then add, because it’s true, “Though I have to admit—there’s something deeply satisfying about proving him wrong in such a spectacular fashion.”
“Gaslighting is insidious,” Mateo says. “It’s designed to make you question your own reality.”
He refills our wine glasses.
“In my experience, people who need to tear others down usually do it because they can’t face their own shortcomings.”
“Spoken like someone who’s been through relationship drama,” I say.
He laughs softly. “Guilty. Though in my case, it was more about choosing career over relationship repeatedly until I looked up one day and realized I was forty-one and married to my work.”
“Forty-one and single,” I say. “In my experience, that usually means either commitment issues or impossible standards.”
“Probably both,” he admits. “I’ve always been better at diagnosing other people’s problems than fixing my own.”
He pauses, studying my face in the candlelight.
“Can I ask you something personal?”
“After everything I just told you? Go ahead.”
“What’s next for you?” he asks. “I mean, beyond the divorce proceedings and hotel living.”
I consider how much to share. The fertility treatments. The massive inheritance. The complete reconstruction of my identity. It’s a lot to dump on someone I just met.
But there’s something about Mateo’s genuine interest that makes me want to be honest—without spilling everything at once.
“I’m pursuing medical treatments I couldn’t access during my marriage,” I say. “My ex-husband had very strong opinions about what we should and shouldn’t do regarding family planning. I’ve always wanted to be a mother, and I’m tired of waiting for someone else’s permission to pursue my dreams.”
Mateo nods, approving.
“Good for you. Too many women put their lives on hold waiting for the right circumstances or the right partner. Sometimes the right time is right now—regardless of what anyone else thinks.”
“That’s exactly how I feel,” I say. “I’m thirty-two. I’m financially stable. And I finally have the freedom to make my own choices.”
“Financial stability helps,” he says gently. “Some fertility treatments can be expensive, and insurance doesn’t always cover everything.”
If only he knew.
“What about you?” I ask, redirecting. “Any plans to break your pattern of choosing work over relationships?”
“Actually, yes,” he says. “I’ve been thinking a lot about work-life balance lately. My practice is established. I have excellent partners who can cover for me. And I’m tired of coming home to an empty house every night.”
“So you’re ready to start dating seriously?”
“I’m ready to start living seriously,” he says. “Dating is just part of that.”
Dessert arrives, and somehow we’ve progressed to sharing tiramisu without discussing it. Mateo tells me about his practice, his family back in Italy, his plans to cut back his hours and actually take vacations.
“I have a villa in Tuscany that I inherited from my grandmother,” he says. “I’ve owned it for eight years and visited exactly twice.”
“That seems like a waste of a beautiful property,” I say, “and a tragic waste of life.”
He smiles. “You should go. Especially if you’re in a life-rebuilding phase. There’s something about that landscape that puts everything in perspective.”
By the time we finish dinner, it’s nearly ten. The restaurant is emptying out, and I’m reluctant to end the conversation. It’s been months since I talked to someone who made me feel interesting and valued rather than defective and burdensome.
“This was exactly what I needed tonight,” I tell him as we wait for the check. “Thank you for rescuing me from eating alone and overthinking my life.”
“Thank you for letting a stranger join your table,” he says. “I was dreading another night of takeout in my office.”
He hesitates, then says, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Would you like to have coffee sometime?” he asks. “I know you’re going through a lot of changes right now, and I’m not trying to complicate your life, but I’d like to see you again.”
The question catches me off guard—not because I don’t want to see him again, but because I haven’t thought about dating since my marriage ended.
Is it too soon? Too complicated? Too risky?
And then I remember my dad’s note.
You deserve a life where you don’t have to settle for less than you’re worth.
“I’d like that,” I say. “But I should warn you—my life is pretty unpredictable right now.”
“Mine too,” he says, and there’s warmth in his eyes. “Maybe we can be unpredictable together.”
As we walk through the hotel lobby toward the elevators, I catch our reflection in the mirrored walls. We look like two people who belong together—confident, comfortable in each other’s company.
It’s a far cry from the anxious, diminished woman who left Victor’s house that morning.
And for the first time in years, I’m actually excited about what tomorrow might bring.
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