CHANCES

BOOK 7

The night air was still warm when the rooftop bar finally emptied, but the tension that had settled over the table didn’t fade with the last jazz note. Amelia lingered by the railing, her hands gripping the glass as if she could hold the city’s lights in place. When the others drifted toward the elevators, she turned to Claire, her expression a mix of hurt and frustration.

“Can we talk?”Amelia asked, her voice low enough that only Claire could hear over the distant hum of traffic.claire was Justin's older sister."I'm sorry for all I caused

Amelia hesitated, the weight of the evening pressing down on her shoulders. “Sure,” she said, stepping closer.

Claire exhaled, the breath fogging a small circle on the glass. “I thought we were… friends, Amelia. I’ve been trying to be supportive because you’re my brother’s ex and because Melvin’s my fiancé, but you’ve been… you’ve been a wreck. You say you’re sorry, but you keep disappearing, and then you show up with Denise like nothing happened. It feels like you’re using us as a safety net while you figure out your own mess.”

The words hit harder than any of Justin’s accusations. Amelia felt a sting behind her eyes, but she forced herself to meet Claire’s gaze. “I know I’ve been all over the place. I’m not trying to use anyone. I’m… I’m scared, Claire. I don’t want to lose the people who matter to me, but I also don’t know how to stop hurting them.”

Claire’s shoulders softened just a fraction. “I get that. I really do. But you need to understand that my brother’s pain is my pain. When he’s hurting, I feel it too. Seeing you with Denise after everything that’s happened… it feels like a punch to the gut. I’m not saying I won’t support you, but I need you to stop pretending everything’s okay and actually deal with what you’ve done.”

Amelia swallowed, the night’s cool breeze ripping a stray tear from her cheek. “I’m trying. I’m going to talk to Justin tomorrow, properly. I’m going to apologize and… I don’t know what else. I just don’t want to keep hurting you or Melvin.”

Claire gave a small, reluctant nod. “Okay. I’ll give you that chance. But after you talk to Justin, we need to sit down—just the three of us—Melvin, you, and me. No phones, no work. We need to clear the air before this blows up any further.”

Amelia nodded, grateful for the olive branch. “Deal.”

The next morning, the office was a blur of fluorescent light and the low murmur of colleagues settling in for another day. Amelia arrived early, her mind a jumble of rehearsed apologies and the echo of Claire’s words. She set her laptop on her desk, the screen flashing the quarterly presentation that still needed a final polish.

Just as she was about to dive into the data, Melvin appeared at her cubicle, his usual calm demeanor slightly strained.

“Morning, Amelia,” he said, sliding a fresh cup of coffee onto her desk. “How are you feeling?”

She managed a weak smile. “Like I’m about to walk into a storm, but I’m going to face it.”

Melvin chuckled, but his eyes were serious. “Claire told me about your conversation last night. I’m glad you two are talking. I don’t want this to become a bigger mess than it already is. The board meeting is in two days, and I need you focused. If you need any help with the slides, let me know.”

“Thanks, Melvin,” Amelia said, genuinely grateful. “I’ll get everything together.”

He gave her a brief, supportive pat on the shoulder before moving on, his fiancée’s ring catching the light as he walked away.

Around noon, Denise texted: _“Lunch? My treat—someplace quiet where we can talk.”_ Amelia hesitated, remembering Claire’s warning, but the idea of a quiet meal away from the office felt like a lifeline.

They met at a small bistro a few blocks from the office, the kind with mismatched chairs and a chalkboard menu. Denise was already seated, a glass of sparkling water in front of him.

“You look like you’ve been through a war,” he said, standing to pull out her chair.

Amelia laughed, a short, humorless sound. “Just a really bad day.”

Denise’s expression turned serious. “I heard Claire’s upset. I’m sorry you’re caught in the middle of all this. I never meant to make things harder for you.”

She sighed, stirring her soup. “I’m a mess, Denise. I keep pulling people in, and I keep hurting them. I don’t know how to stop.”

He reached across the table, his hand warm on hers. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now. Just take it one step at a time. Talk to Justin, talk to Claire, and then… see where you’re at. You deserve a chance to be happy, however that looks.”

Amelia nodded, feeling a small spark of resolve. “Thank you. For everything.”

The afternoon passed in a haze of charts and numbers. As the clock ticked toward five, Amelia finally gathered the courage to find Justin. She spotted him by the elevator, his back to her, the same rigid posture that had made her heart race the night before.

“Justin?” she called, her voice steadier than she felt.

He turned, his eyes flickering with a mixture of surprise and lingering anger. “What do you want, Amelia?”

She took a breath, the words she’d rehearsed spilling out in a rush. “I’m sorry—for everything I said, for the way I acted, for hurting you. I was scared, and I lashed out. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I needed to tell you that I’m truly sorry.”

Justin stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. The anger in his eyes softened just enough to let a flicker of pain through. “Sorry doesn’t fix the mess we made,” he said quietly

Amelia nodded, relief and disappointment mingling. “I understand. Thank you for hearing me.”

He turned back toward the elevator, paused, and then said, “i wasn't listening because I care I was doing so because Claire asked me to .” he stood and strode out.The doors closed, and he was gone.

That evening, back in her apartment, Amelia finally let herself collapse onto the couch. The city lights painted the walls with a soft glow, and she pulled out her phone to send a quick message to Claire: _“Talked to Justin. It’s a start. Can we meet tomorrow after work? I’d like that talk.”_

Claire’s reply came within minutes: _“Tomorrow works. I’ll bring coffee. We’ll figure this out.”_

Amelia smiled, a genuine one for the first time in days. She looked around her small living room, the sketchbooks and half‑finished latte on the coffee table a reminder of the life she was trying to rebuild. The storm wasn’t over, yet the clouds were beginning to part.

She turned on some music, a low jazz tune that reminded her of the rooftop bar, and let the melody fill the space. Somewhere in the city, a saxophone wailed—a sound that, for the first time in a long while, felt less like a reminder of loss and more like a promise of new beginnings.