It was supposed to be a perfect night. Daniel had said he wanted to “make it up to me” after weeks of being distant. He booked us a table at Le Jardin, the restaurant I’d been hinting at for months. I spent the whole afternoon getting ready, curling my hair, slipping into the red dress he once told me made me look unforgettable. By the time we arrived, my heart was racing with hope. Maybe this was the night things would finally feel right again.
The host greeted us with a warm smile. “Welcome. Reservation name?”
Daniel stepped forward confidently. “Roberts.”
I froze. Roberts. My last name, yes—but also Emily’s. My sister’s.
The host checked the book and nodded. “Ah yes, Emily Roberts. Table for two.”
My stomach dropped so hard I almost stumbled. I turned to Daniel, my voice sharp. “Emily Roberts?”
He blinked, his jaw tightening. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just a name.”
“Just a name?” I hissed, my pulse hammering. “Why is the reservation under her name, Daniel?”
The host, sensing tension, quickly ushered us to the table. The very same corner booth Daniel had once described as “intimate.” I slid into the seat, my hands trembling against the menu.
He leaned across the table, lowering his voice. “Don’t make a scene.”
I laughed bitterly. “A scene? You bring me to dinner with a reservation under my sister’s name and you expect me to smile?”
His eyes darted away. “She made the booking for me. That’s all.”
“For you?” I spat. “Not for us? Not for me?”
He rubbed his temples, sighing. “You’re overthinking this.”
Overthinking. That word cut deeper than the reservation itself. Because I wasn’t overthinking. I was finally seeing.
The waiter came to take our order, but I couldn’t eat. My appetite was gone, replaced by nausea twisting in my gut. Across the table, Daniel chatted casually about work, about his day, as if the ghost of my sister wasn’t sitting between us.
Halfway through the meal, I excused myself to the bathroom. I locked myself in a stall and pulled out my phone. Emily’s social media page glowed on the screen. There it was—a check-in from the same restaurant, just a week earlier. Same reservation name. Same table. Same man.
I pressed a fist to my mouth to stifle the sob.
When I returned to the table, Daniel looked up, smiling like nothing was wrong. “You okay?”
I sat down, my voice shaking. “I know. You brought her here first.”
His smile faltered, his fork clinking against the plate. Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
I stood, sliding out of the booth. “Enjoy the rest of your dinner, Daniel. I’m done eating lies.”
I walked out, the night air biting against my skin, tears burning hot trails down my cheeks. Behind me, the glow of Le Jardin faded into the distance.
Final Thought
Reservations are supposed to hold a place for you. But that night, mine was already taken. Seeing my sister’s name tied to our table wasn’t just a mistake—it was a message. A reminder that love built on lies will always have someone else’s name on the reservation.
