Viktoria. POV
By the end of lunch, I'm already feeling miserable.
It isn't the African food. Kaden had picked this little restaurant tucked at the end of the line by the river run by an African fellow, with yellow and pink walls, soft foreign music, and pleasant colored waiters. But with my own machinations, I killed the joy of the afternoon as I couldn't stop myself from looking out the window, checking the door, the faces, just in case Marco walks in, red in the face. A pathetic choreographed afternoon for someone who isn’t even here.
Every laugh, every smile, every time I brush off my hair . . . it’s all a desperate performance for the ghost of a man who doesn’t care anymore. And when I realize that, the bitterness starts to boil inside me. He may be jealous, yes, but that doesn't
