Amelia didn’t listen to the voicemail right away.
The notification sat on her screen like a c***k in glass, small but impossible to ignore. She stared at it as Oliver slept beside her, his tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm, his fingers still clutching the edge of his blanket.
A part of her wanted to delete it without a second thought.
But the other part—the one still tied to the sound of Andrew’s voice, the one that remembered Paris, the memories of their time together, and how her body had once felt safe in his arms—couldn’t look away.
So, when Oliver was fast asleep, she padded quietly into the living room, wrapped in her robe, and pressed play.
His voice filled the room like a ghost.
“Amelia… I know you probably don’t want to hear from me…”
She stood still, clutchi
