Amara looked at him.

“You’re stepping down?”

“Yes.”

“Before the board can remove you?”

“Before anyone else pays for decisions that began with me.”

Amara studied him.

She had expected excuses.

Lawyers.

A public relations strategy.

Instead, she saw something she had not expected from the man who had tried to humiliate her at dinner.

Responsibility.

“Do you think resigning fixes everything?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then why do it?”

“Because doing nothing is how I arrived here.”

Amara said nothing.

Kenji looked at her.

“I spent my life believing that being powerful meant never admitting weakness.”

He smiled sadly.

“You have been teaching me otherwise since you brought me my first menu.”

Amara shook her head.

“I didn’t teach you anything.”

“No?”

“You learned because you finally decided to listen.”

Kenji looked at her for a long moment.

Then he bowed his head.

Not as a performance.

Not as a symbol of status.

Simply as a man acknowledging another person.

The following day, Kenji Takamori publicly resigned.

The announcement shocked investors.

Markets reacted.

News channels speculated.

But Kenji’s statement contained no attempt to protect his reputation.

He accepted responsibility for failures in oversight and promised to cooperate with investigators.

Aiko watched the broadcast from a private apartment.

When it ended, she turned to Amara.

“Do you think he means it?”

Amara thought carefully.

“Yes.”

Aiko sighed.

“That doesn’t make everything okay.”

“No.”

“Can I forgive him?”

“That’s your decision.”

Aiko smiled.

“You’re really bad at telling people what they want to hear.”

“I’m a waitress. Not a fortune cookie.”

Aiko laughed.

It was the first time Amara had seen her laugh without fear.

Then Amara’s phone rang.

It was Charles Whitmore from Le Jardin Bleu.

“Amara?”

“Yes?”

“You’re alive.”

“That’s usually a good sign.”

“You disappeared for four days!”

“I had some things to do.”

Charles was silent.

Then he said, “You’re coming back tonight.”

Amara smiled.

“I thought you’d fired me.”

“Are you kidding? Half the city knows your face.”

Amara groaned.

“Please don’t say that.”

“There are reporters outside the restaurant.”

She closed her eyes.

“I quit.”

“You can’t quit.”

“Watch me.”

But that evening, Amara returned to Le Jardin Bleu.

Not because Charles demanded it.

Because she wanted one normal night.

One night carrying menus.

One night listening to the clinking of glasses.

One night where nobody asked her about billionaires, corporate conspiracies, or international scandals.

She entered the dining room.

Table seven was empty.

Amara looked at it.

Then she smiled.

The first chapter of her strange adventure had begun there.

But something told her the story was not over.

Because outside the restaurant, a black car had just stopped.

And the man stepping out was Kenji Takamori.

The restaurant was crowded when Kenji Takamori entered.

Every head turned.

Amara stood near the service station holding a tray of glasses.

Charles nearly dropped a bottle of wine.

“Oh, no.”

Amara looked at him.

“What?”

“He’s back.”

“I can see that.”

Kenji walked toward table seven.

The same table.

The table where he had first spoken to Amara as though she were an obstacle placed in his path.

Now he stood beside it alone.

No executives.

No interpreter.

No security team.

Just Kenji.

Amara approached.

“Good evening.”

He looked at her.

“Good evening, Miss Bennett.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Amara.”

He smiled.

“Amara.”

She placed a menu in front of him.

“Would you like to order?”

Kenji opened the menu.

Then closed it.

“I already know what I would like.”

Amara waited.

He looked directly at her.

“I would like to apologize again.”

Amara sighed.

“You already did.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you doing it again?”

“Because the first apology was for how I treated you.”

He paused.

“This one is for not understanding what you gave me.”

Amara frowned.

“What did I give you?”

“A chance to become embarrassed.”

She laughed.

“That’s an unusual thank-you.”

Kenji smiled.

“You were the first person in many years who spoke to me without fear.”

Amara leaned against the edge of the table.

“That’s because you were being rude.”

“Exactly.”

She laughed again.

For a few minutes, they spoke about nothing important.

The food.

The weather.