Chapter 18
The waiter appeared, a young man named Thomas who recited the specials with practised precision and took their drink orders.
Lyra chose a white wine that Remy's Foresight told him she'd picked because it was expensive enough to show she had taste but not so expensive that it looked like she was trying to test his wealth.
Remy ordered a scotch, neat, because it felt appropriate and because he needed something to steady his nerves.
When Thomas left, an awkward silence descended.
They were two people who'd circled each other for weeks, who'd had intense moments and saved lives and shared secrets, but who'd never actually sat down and had a normal conversation like normal people on a normal date.
"So," Lyra said finally, her fingers still playing with her water glass. "This is weird, right? We've kind of done everything backwards. You saved my family before we even had coffee.
You've seen me cry, seen me at my worst, but we've never just... talked."
"Very weird," Remy agreed with a slight smile. "Usually, you're supposed to have small talks first.
Where are you from? What's your major? What's your favourite colour? Then maybe work up to family financial collapse and corporate espionage after a few months."
Lyra laughed, a real laugh, not the practised social laugh she usually deployed.
"My favourite colour is silver," she said, her eyes twinkling with humour. "Like my eyes, which I'm sure you've noticed.
I'm from the north side, born and raised in the house my great-grandfather built.
My major is business administration with a focus on real estate because apparently I'm doomed to follow in my father's footsteps even after you saved him from his own mistakes."
"You don't have to follow in anyone's footsteps," Remy said. "You could choose something completely different.
Study art history or marine biology or literally anything else."
"Could I?" Lyra asked, and there was something vulnerable in the question.
"I've spent my whole life being Lyra Castellane, daughter of Marcus Castellane, future heir to the family business.
I don't know who I'd be if I weren't that. It's like... It's like being a role I've played so long I forgot it was a role."
The waiter returned with their drinks. Lyra took a sip of her wine, and Remy saw her shoulders relax slightly, the alcohol providing artificial courage.
"I know what that's like," Remy said quietly. "Playing a role for so long you forget who you really are underneath."
"Do you?" Lyra asked, leaning forward slightly, her silver eyes intense and curious.
"Because that's the thing that's been driving me crazy for weeks, Remy. You appeared out of nowhere, completely transformed from... from..."
She trailed off, embarrassed, but Remy finished for her: "From the fat, ugly guy you and your friends used to mock in the hallways?"
Lyra flinched as if he'd slapped her. "I was going to say 'from someone I didn't know,' but yes.
From that person." She took a deep breath, her hands clenching into fists on the table. "I need to apologise for that. Properly.
Not just a quick 'thank you' when you saved my family, but I really apologise for how cruel I was. How awful."
"Lyra..."
"No, let me finish," she interrupted, her voice shaking slightly. "I was horrible to you. I laughed when Marcus tripped you. I made comments about your appearance with my friends, loud enough that I knew you could hear.
I treated you like you were invisible, or worse, like you were something disgusting I had to step around. And I did it because..." She paused, tears forming in her silver eyes.
"I did it because it made me feel powerful. Because I was so terrified of being judged myself that I judged everyone else first.
Because if I were the one doing the mocking, I couldn't be mocked."
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she wiped it away angrily.
"And the worst part is, I don't even have a good excuse. I wasn't abused or traumatised. I was just spoiled and insecure and mean. And you saved my family anyway. You helped me anyway. Why?"
Remy was quiet for a long moment, his golden eyes studying her face.
Through his eyes, he could see the weight she was carrying, the genuine guilt and shame, the fear that he would reject her, the desperate hope that maybe he could forgive what she wasn't sure she could forgive in herself.
"Because people can change," he said finally. "Because the girl who mocked me in the hallway isn't the same woman sitting across from me now.
Because I believe that our worst moments don't have to define us forever."
"How can you be so sure I've changed?" Lyra asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"How do you know I'm not just performing again? Being nice because you're rich and powerful now instead of....."
"Because I can see you," Remy interrupted gently. "Really see you. Not the armour you wear, not the role you play. The real Lyra underneath. The one who's terrified of being abandoned.
The one who uses cruelty as a defence mechanism because vulnerability feels like weakness. The one who wants desperately to be loved for who she is instead of what she represents."
Lyra stared at him, more tears falling now. "How do you do that? How do you see so clearly?"
"Practice," Remy said with a slight smile. "And maybe a little divine intervention."
The waiter returned to take their dinner orders. They both ordered without really paying attention to what they were choosing, some fish dish that was probably excellent, but neither of them would really taste.
The interruption gave Lyra time to compose herself, wipe her eyes, and take a deep breath.
When Thomas left again, the conversation shifted. They talked about lighter things, favourite movies, embarrassing childhood stories, dreams they'd had as kids before reality crushed them into practical shapes.
Lyra told him about wanting to be a dancer when she was seven. Before her father explained that Castellanes didn't perform for others, they employed performers.
Remy told her about loving to draw before his parents died, and foster care taught him that art supplies were luxuries he couldn't afford.
"Do you still draw?" Lyra asked, genuinely curious.
"Sometimes," Remy admitted. "Late at night when I can't sleep. Nothing good, just... sketches. Ways of processing things."
"I'd like to see them sometime," Lyra said softly. "The real you. Not the hero who saves people or the mysterious guy with golden eyes. Just... Remy."
"That's a harder request than you think," Remy said with a slight laugh.
"I'm not sure I know who 'just Remy' is anymore. I've been so focused on becoming someone different, someone stronger, that I might have lost track of the person underneath."
"Then maybe we can figure it out together," Lyra suggested, her hand sliding across the table toward his.
"Who are we really when we're not performing. When we're not afraid."
Remy looked at her hand, small, delicate, with perfectly manicured nails painted a subtle pink, and then at her face.
She was offering him something precious: real connection, real vulnerability, real trust despite having every reason not to trust anyone.
His Foresight flickered, showing him the moment his hand closed over hers, showing him the warmth and connection that would follow, but also showing him the complications.
He saw Indigo's face when she heard about this date. Saw Nyx's expression when she realised there was something romantic developing between them.
Saw jealousy and hurt and drama spiralling out from this one simple gesture.
But he also saw Lyra's smile, genuine and unguarded, and the possibility of something real and beautiful growing between them.