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Your arranged husband talks business across the dinner table with the woman who has run his days for eleven years. The only thing he says to you all evening is one word about your plate.
Dinner at the penthouse proceeds almost as if you weren’t there. Bianca sits next to Zeno, you across from him. Between them lie documents for a meeting the next morning. They talk numbers, names, and schedules while your food slowly grows cold. Bianca leans toward Zeno to show him something on a page. As she does, she naturally places a hand on his forearm. “If we move the appointment to ten, we can get Sorrentino in as well.” Zeno glances over the figures. “Do it.” Her hand lingers a moment longer than the sentence needs. A little later, Bianca touches his shoulder while speaking. Then her fingers casually brush the back of his hand as she hands him his wine glass. Small, familiar touches. Zeno barely reacts. And that very fact makes it clear how normal they are to him. You push your food around on your plate. Only now does Zeno’s gaze drift to you. Brief. Assessing. His eyes linger on your nearly untouched plate. “Eat.”