"Look, I'm in my thirties. My memory's not what it used to be, alright? I forgot you don't like organ meat. That's all it was."
He paused, his voice softening.
"Those other women were just distractions. They never meant anything. The only person I've ever wanted for real, for forever, is you. Can't you believe that?"
The server, familiar with us for years, likely thought we were having a lovers' spat.
He intervened gently, attempting to help.
"That's right, Ms. Hutton. Plenty of customers have taken photos here, but the one of you and Mr. Grant is the most popular. People always say you look perfect together. And just look at how he gazes at you. You can practically see the affection. I can swear he's never brought another woman here."
I looked up at the photo and felt the world tilt for a moment.
I grew up in an orphanage. They told me my parents and older brother had been killed by business rivals, and our family's company was destroyed.
So, whenever I stood next to someone as dazzling as Samuel, I always felt a bit small.
But Samuel insisted that, in his eyes, I was the best.
When I had terrible period cramps, he'd cancel work, drive overnight from another state, and show up at my door with heating pads and a mug of warm brown sugar water.
When other students mocked me, calling me a bastard or a hillbilly, he defended me so fiercely that no one dared touch me again.
I fell for him, and I fell hard.
He told me he kept all those other mistresses only to avoid being pushed into a political marriage by his grandmother.
He said he didn't touch them because he didn't love them. And he didn't touch me because he treasured me. He wanted us to save our first time for our wedding night.
In the photo the server took, I had just accepted his confession.
My face had been burning red, too shy to look at him, staring at my food instead. And Samuel had rested his chin on his hand, gazing at me with warmth and affection overflowing from his eyes.
But later, it was that same man who shattered my belief in love.
That same man who ended my life with his own hands.
I stared at the photo on the wall. The colors had faded a little over time, but the memory it captured hadn't. My voice came out low, almost more to myself than to him.