Page 208 of The Bittersweet Bond

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Evin

The scent of roasted eggplants and fresh herbs drifted through the house as Evin came down the stairs. Her hair was still damp, hanging loosely over her shoulders, and the soft warmth of steam wafting from the kitchen wrapped around her as she reached the last steps. Her parents' voices carried softly through the hallway, a familiar murmur that welcomed her from afar.

Her father sat at the table, a notepad in front of him, rhythmically tapping a pen against the paper. Her mother was in the kitchen, quietly humming a melody as she added the final spoonful of yogurt to the salad.

“There you are, Evin,” her father said without looking up. His voice was calm, almost casual, but she sensed he’d been aware of her presence before she'd even entered the room. “How was rehearsal? Everything go as planned?”

“It was okay,” Evin murmured, pulling her knees up to her chest as she settled into one of the chairs. The wooden seat felt cool against her skin. “Typical dress rehearsal. Lots of chaos, a few slip-ups. Nothing dramatic.”

Her mother appeared with a plate of salad, setting it gently in front of her. “I made you a little something. You must be hungry,” she said softly, resting her hand briefly on Evin’s shoulder. “So, how did it really go?”

Evin shrugged, picking up her fork and poking listlessly at a piece of cucumber. “There were scouts there,” she finally admitted, trying to sound as casual as possible. She didn't want the words to hold more weight than necessary.

Her father raised an eyebrow, finally looking at her directly as he put down his pen. “Scouts? For the big schools?” His voice held a hint of curiosity that sent a small wave of tension through her stomach.

“Yeah, but... it doesn't matter. They weren't there for me,” she quickly added, eyes fixed on her plate.

Her mother took a seat opposite her, pulling her chair back slightly to regard her thoughtfully. “Why wouldn’t they be there for you?”

“Mom, please. You’ve seen how many people are performing. Rafael, Nele—they stand out. I’m just… there.” She hugged her knees tighter, as if trying to shield herself from her own thoughts.

Her mother frowned slightly, not sternly, but thoughtfully. “You’re not just ‘there,’ Evin. You're part of the performance because you have the talent and discipline to be there. If the scouts don't see that, it's their loss.”

Her father leaned back, folding his arms over his chest and nodding slowly. “Your mother's right.”

Evin laughed dryly, shaking her head slightly. “The ballet world is... well, they're looking for perfection. And I’m… not perfect.” Secretly, she wished she might have a tiny chance, even though she knew realistically it wasn’t likely.

Her mother leaned forward slightly, her voice growing softer. “Nobody’s perfect. Not even those who perform on the biggest stages. But you know what makes them special? They believe in themselves. And they keep putting themselves out there.”

Evin looked up, meeting her mother's gaze and feeling the warmth within it. It wasn’t empty encouragement or exaggerated praise. It was genuine. Her father grinned and took a sip of water. “And let’s be honest, kiddo, if they don’t take you, you can always stay here. We'd make a great teacher-ballerina team. Every time things get heated in the classroom, you can just dance right in and calm everyone down.”

Evin rolled her eyes but couldn't stop a small smile from forming on her lips. It was easy to feel safe in their presence, even when the pressure weighed heavily on her shoulders. It wasn't perfect, but here, in this moment, it was enough.

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Sebastian

From the outside, the restaurant looked unassuming. But the moment they stepped inside, an atmosphere unfolded that felt like a soft, luxurious slap to the face. The walls, painted in warm shades of cream and beige, were simple yet timelessly elegant, while the high ceilings gave the space an almost reverent vastness. Light was everywhere—soft, golden, as if the sun itself had decided to drape this place in its finest glow. Between the tables stood subtle floral arrangements, not ostentatious, but noticeable in their restraint. Even the murmured conversations and occasional clinking of glasses soundedlike part of a carefully composed symphony.

The waiters glided through the room, their movements nearly silent, as if ensuring they didn’t disturb a single note of the ambiance. Each table felt like its own tiny universe—conversations, gestures, everything so private that interrupting them would have been a sacrilege. The scent of freshly baked bread and delicate spices lingered in the air, not overpowering, but an invitation. This was not a loud kind of luxury, but one that slipped quietly into the space and filled it completely, without ever having to announce itself.

And yet—how the hell could a restaurant be so damn quiet and still scream: “You don’t belong here?”

Bas let his gaze wander, feeling the details dig into him—the perfect symmetry of the napkins, the understated elegance of the decor, the muted lighting. Everything here was designed to impress without trying. He could sense how effortlessly his father fit into this place, while he himself felt like a visitor in a world that wasn’t his. His stomach tightened slightly.

"Ah, Donald. Alexander."

His father’s voice was as controlled as ever, almost casual, but Bas recognized the tension in his expression. He had seen it often enough. This was important.

Donald Cole was tall, with a firm handshake and a smile that was both friendly and razor-sharp. His son, Alexander, was the complete opposite—relaxed, charming, carrying an effortless ease that almost irritated Bas. His hair was perfectly styled, his grin so wide it was hard not to return it.

"Nice to meet you, Sebastian," Alexander said as he took his seat. "Your dad told me you’re into cars."

Bas nodded. "Yeah, that’s right. Mostly motorsports."

"Oh, cool." Alexander's eyes lit up. "I was in Monaco for the Grand Prix last year. Incredible experience. Maybe we can make it happen next year?"

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