Mona’s POV
Ian?
Wait—what the hell are you doing here?
I blinked once. Twice. But no, I wasn’t hallucinating. It was him. Ian Devereux, standing like a ghost from a past I had just buried — in broad daylight, in front of my favorite corner café, where I was supposed to be minding my business and my cappuccino.
I narrowed my eyes, instantly on edge. “I thought we got things over. You chose Me over me, remember? So what’s with the long face? She not reading bedtime stories anymore?”
He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His hair was messier than usual, like he’d been running his hands through it out of habit. He wore the same black coat I once stole to sleep in, and the way it clung to his frame made him look colder, heavier… like guilt had a physical weight.
“Mona,” he said my name
