Gaston is on the porch when I stumble back to his house, Al beside him. One look at my tear‑stained face says everything.
“We should go for a run.” Al springs up before Gaston can speak. He doesn’t need words—his “I told you so” look cuts deep enough.
I run. Al follows, her footsteps crunching against gravel, steady as a drumbeat. “I’m sorry,” she says, breath catching.
“So much for me becoming queen someday.” My laugh is brittle, humorless, swallowed by the wind.
She breathes in, shoulders rising. “It’s still possible, Mar. I’m sorry you’re hurting. No one should have to endure this kind of pain.”
I shoot her a look, sharp. “Do you actually believe the fortune‑cookie wisdom you peddle, or do you just enjoy the sound of it?”
“He’ll be back,” she says, ignoring my harsh wo
