The golden light of the chandeliers spilled across the polished surface of the wooden table.
The restaurant was calm.
A soft piano melody flowed in the background; gentle, unobtrusive.
Gary sat across from Camila.
He wore a formal jacket, but his anxiety was evident in the fingers that tapped restlessly on the table.
He picked up the glass of water.
His hand trembled slightly.
He took a sip.
Camila gazed at him with a quiet, warm look.
A simple smile; not artificial, not for show.
Sincere.
She tilted her head slightly.
“Gary… I have a question.”
Gary sat up straight.
“Ask.”
Camila said with a gentle playfulness:
“Why haven’t you had any wine since you proposed to me?”
Gary paused.
His expression turned serious.
“I’d be a damn fool to drink wine again.”
Camila laughed; a short, soft laugh.
But a moment later, her gaze grew quieter.
Her eyes rested on the table; as if passing through a distant memory.
“You know… when I was a child, I always wanted to be a fashion model.”
Gary listened with surprise.
“But my sister… was jealous of me. When she found out, she went and entered the modeling industry herself.”
A brief sparkle glimmered in her eyes.
“So I stepped aside. I said it didn’t matter… I just didn’t want to ruin our relationship. I took up painting instead.”
A short silence.
“But even that couldn’t put out her jealousy. Little by little, my relationship with my family fell apart… and after that…”
Her smile faded.
“I lived alone.”
Gary clasped his hands together.
His anxiety had grown, but his gaze remained kind.
“You know, Camila… I only have one person left from my family, too.”
His gaze dropped.
“My little brother, Early. He works for the government. We don’t see each other much… but our relationship isn’t bad.”
He paused.
“I used to work for the government, too.”
Camila looked up.
Gary gave a bitter smile.
“I got fired.”
He took a deep breath.
“After that, I became Lloyd’s bodyguard.”
Their hands slowly moved toward each other.
Not theatrical.
Not rushed.
Their fingers met.
Warm.
Steady.
Gary said in his heart:
Maybe it’s time to give my life a chance.
And for the first time in a long while, his smile wasn’t out of duty.
It was real.
The restaurant light remained warm and calm.
Their hands stayed locked together.
Gary thought of the future.
A quiet home.
A simple life.
No wine.
No trouble.
At that very moment— the restaurant door opened.
Cold air crept inside.
And the sound of measured heels echoed on the stone floor.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Gary paid no attention at first.
But when several patrons suddenly fell silent…
when the waiter stood rigid…
when the restaurant manager personally rushed forward—
Gary slowly turned his head.
And the color drained from his face.
Firan Mire.
A sleek black dress.
Immaculate hair.
A smile that resembled a death sentence more than anything else.
The woman of eight marriages.
Eight husbands.
Eight “mysterious accidents.”
Her eyes calmly scanned the room.
Gary murmured under his breath:
“I’m dead…”
Camila noticed the change in his face.
“What’s wrong? Are you alright?”
Gary suddenly sat bolt upright.
Released Camila’s hand.
Grabbed a napkin.
Wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Nothing! Nothing! Just… my blood pressure dropped a little!”
Simultaneously, he snatched up the menu and held it in front of his face.
A picture of a large steak was printed on it.
From behind the menu, he whispered:
“No no no… why here? Why tonight?”
Camila raised an eyebrow.
“Gary?”
Firan walked forward.
And at that precise moment, her gaze fixed on Gary.
Her smile deepened.
Not romantic.
Predatory.
Gary lowered the menu— and immediately raised it again.
It was too late.
Firan changed course directly toward their table.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Gary whispered rapidly:
“If I die right now, know that I loved you.”
Camila:
“What?!”
Firan stopped beside the table.
Silence.
Then, in a soft, drawn-out voice, she said:
“How interesting… the world really is small.”
Gary slowly lowered the menu.
Forced a plastic smile.
“F-Firan?! What… what a coincidence!”
Firan looked at Camila.
Then at their hands.
Then back at Gary.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Sweat slid down Gary’s temple.
“Th-This… is my colleague!”
Camila said with disbelief:
“Colleague?!”
Gary quickly continued:
“Old colleague! Very old! Very formal!”
Firan tilted her head slightly.
“Strange… because last night, at a fancy bar downtown, you told me I was the woman of your dreams.”
Camila murmured quietly:
“Gary…?”
Gary nearly choked.
“It was a misunderstanding! A complete misunderstanding! I was drunk!”
Firan calmly leaned over and placed her hand on Gary’s shoulder.
“And then you asked me to marry you.”
A deathly silence.
Gary, under his breath:
“A miscalculation…”
Firan continued:
“Interesting you should know… I take proposals seriously.”
The chandelier above them trembled slightly— or maybe it was just how Gary felt.
Camila asked, very quietly:
“Gary… how many other people received this proposal?”
Gary closed his eyes.
“Statistically speaking… it’s not a high number.”
Firan laughed.
“The exact number?”
Gary said quietly:
“Two.”
Camila:
“Two?!”
Firan smiled.
“I’m the second.”
Gary said with horror:
“The order doesn’t matter! Quality matters!”
Firan stood up straight.
“Don’t worry, Gary… I’m a reasonable person.”
She paused.
“I’d just like to know… when are we going to set a wedding date?”
In Gary’s mind, a newspaper headline formed:
Young Bodyguard Falls from Balcony in Completely Accidental Incident.
He said in his heart:
Oh my God…
I’m truly a dead man.
Three seconds had passed since Firan stopped at the table, but to Gary, it felt like three centuries.
Firan said: “Well, dear Gary, when are we going to set a wedding date?”
Gary’s voice was paralyzed by a stutter, not that he had a stutter, but because he couldn’t form a single word.
Camila said, in a voice that was no longer warm, but cold and frozen: “Gary, there are things you didn’t tell me.”
Gary said: “I can explain…”
Firan said: “Yes, do explain, I’d like to hear this too.” Then she pulled out the empty chair beside the table and sat down, as if she owned the restaurant, no—as if she owned the world.
The light from the chandeliers was no longer warm; it was heavy, as if everything was pressing down on Gary’s shoulders.
Gary said in his heart: Oh God, oh great God, if this is a nightmare, please wake me up.
If not, then at least send a miracle.
And at that very moment, the miracle arrived—but not in the form Gary had imagined.
A young waiter, with a face full of acne and terrified eyes, stood by the table.
His hands trembled.
He carried a tray, and on the tray was a bottle of red wine.
Gary said in his heart: No, don’t, don’t pour, don’t pour.
The waiter leaned over to place the bottle on the table, but as if his own foot got caught, or fate, or the dark humor of the cosmos.
Ssssssssshhhhh——!
Red wine spilled everywhere: across the tablecloth, onto the table, over the menus, and most importantly, all over Firan’s black dress.
Silence.
Not a normal silence; a silence in which you could hear a pin drop—a pin that was plunging straight into Gary’s heart.
Firan slowly lowered her head.
She looked at her dress.
The wine stain was spreading across her chest like blood, like an open wound.
Then, very slowly, she raised her head and stared at the waiter.
Firan said, in a voice that was calm, very calm, calmer than it should have been: “Was this… an accident?”
The waiter stammered: “I… I… sorry, ma’am… I didn’t mean to…”
Firan said: “Didn’t mean to?” Then she smiled, a smile that held no warmth.
“Do you know that three of my husbands also died ‘unintentionally’?”
Gary said in his heart: I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m so dead.
Camila said: “Ma’am… I think you should calm down.”
Firan said, looking at Camila: “Calm? Darling, I’m perfectly calm.” Then she placed her hand on the table, and her fingers drummed softly on the wood—tap, tap, tap—like a countdown.
The restaurant manager ran toward them, his face paler than Firan’s dress.
The manager said: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, we apologize, the dry cleaning costs are on us…”
Without looking at the manager, Firan said: “Dry cleaning?” Then she tilted her head slightly.
“The last person who dirtied my clothes is currently in the hospital.”
The manager stepped back, back, back, as if he had glimpsed what fate might befall him.
Gary said, his voice trembling: “Firan, look, this was an accident…”
Firan said: “Accident?” She suddenly turned her face toward Gary.
Her eyes were no longer brown; they were white, vacant white.
“You know, Gary, I don’t believe in accidents.”
Camila stood up and said: “Enough.” Everyone looked.
Camila stood, her hands on the table, her face calm but her eyes blazing with fire.
“I don’t know who you are or what your relationship is with Gary, but right now, you’re ruining my evening.”
Firan said with a smile: “Oh, what a brave girl.” Then she stood up.
She was taller than Camila, but Camila didn’t back away.
“I like brave people…” She leaned toward Camila.
“…I like seeing them at their funerals.”
Gary jumped up and yelled: “Enough!” He stood, his chair scraping back loudly.
The entire restaurant had fallen silent; everyone was watching.
“Firan, I was drunk that night. What I said was wrong, it was a mistake. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. Let us go, please.”
Firan stared at him for a few seconds.
Then she reached out and traced her fingers along Gary’s cheek.
She said: “You’re funny, Gary.” Then she pulled back.
“Alright, I’ll forgive you today.” She picked up her coat.
“But next time…” She smiled.
“Next time, you’ll have to come and propose properly.” And she left.
The sound of her heels: click, click, click to the door.
Then a gust of cold air swept in, and Firan vanished.
Gary collapsed into his chair.
Camila said: “Gary…”
Gary said: “Just a few seconds of silence, please.” Then he picked up the napkin and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
His hands were still shaking.
Camila sat down and said: “Was… what she said true?”
Gary said: “Which part?”
Camila said: “That you proposed to two people?”
Gary closed his eyes and said: “…Yes.”
Camila said: “And I was the first?”
Gary paused and said: “You were the first. Firan was the second.”
Silence.
This time, a real silence.
Not born of fear, but of heartbreak.
Camila took her hands off the table and said: “Maybe I should go home tonight.”
Gary said: “Camila…”
Camila said: “No, Gary. Not tonight.” She stood up, picked up her purse.
“I’ll call you.” And she left—slowly, silently, without looking back.
Gary was left alone.
The chandelier light glimmered in his eyes, but he saw nothing: just the empty table, the half-full glass of water, the scent of Camila still hanging in the air, and the sound of Firan’s voice whispering in his ear: “Next time, you’ll have to come and propose properly.”
Gary said in his heart: There won’t be a next time.
But deep down, he knew Firan meant every word, and he was just a simple bodyguard with two marriage proposals, one ordinary woman who had left, and one mad woman who wouldn’t stay gone.