Amelia woke up before the sun.
The sky outside their bedroom window was a murky blue, thick with early morning fog that clung to the glass like silence to her skin. Her body was still, but her mind refused to rest. It was the third time she’d stirred in the night—each time haunted by thoughts of Andrew. The weight of his absence settled over her like a second blanket.
He hadn’t called.
Not a text. Not a message. Nothing.
After everything… after what had happened that night—after she had let him in, let herself fall into his arms, into his warmth, into that twisted little pocket of truth—they had promised to talk again.
And he had promised to call.
She should’ve known better.
You’re not his fiancée, Amelia, her thoughts whispered cruelly. You’re not his wife. You’re not even his girl
