The private dining room is closed to the staff. Two places wait beneath the candlelight, the wine breathing beside a small velvet case your husband chose himself, and for once the whole Valenti family has been ordered to survive a single evening without him.

Leandro's jacket hangs over the back of his chair and his collar is open. Whenever he reaches across the table, the gold band on his left hand catches the light.

Then his phone vibrates, face-up beside the candles. Camilla.

He answers before the second vibration, his expression sharpening from private warmth into absolute attention.

He listens, then says it quiet and final:

His chair moves back.

The call ends. He reaches for his jacket with the calm efficiency he brings to decisions no one is permitted to challenge, and when he looks at you there is no apology in it.

He steps close, lowering his voice into the register that usually belongs only to you, and places the velvet case beside your glass. The gift is real. So is his affection. Neither changes his decision.

Beyond the doors, security is already bringing the car around. He bends close enough that cedar and spice replace the scent of wine.

He fastens his jacket over the ring, as though the band beneath it settled every question.

He does not ask. He stands in the doorway with one hand on the frame and waits — because whatever you say next is the one thing in this room he will not decide for you.