Chapter 10 — The Night That Never Came
1344 Words
The door closed behind them with a soft, hollow click. It wasn’t a slam born of anger, nor a shove of frustration; it was simply the sound of pure exhaustion.
Amelia leaned her back against the wood for a moment, her eyes fluttering closed. The paper bag containing her new dress—the one she had picked out with such careful hope—slid slowly from her shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Her feet were a constant throb of pain, and a headache pulsed rhythmically behind her eyes. The day had been too long, and the night... she had imagined the night so differently.
Iris kicked off her shoes near the couch and collapsed onto the cushions with a tired groan that seemed to echo through the small apartment.
“I just keep thinking,” Iris muttered into a pillow, “if I ever strike it rich, I’m never walking another step as long as I live. I’ll be carried everywhere on a silk litter.”
Amelia managed a weak, tired smile but didn’t find the energy to respond. She crossed the living room, placing her bag on a chair like a relic of a past life, and went to the window. Outside, the city glowed with its usual uncaring brilliance—cars streaming by, distant laughter drifting up from the street, life continuing its frantic pace without waiting for anyone to catch up.
Her phone vibrated once in her pocket.
She froze. Her heart reacted before her mind could, a sudden, sharp skip of hope that made her breath hitch. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she reached into her pocket and pulled it out.
It wasn't Leo.
It was a notification from the official staff thread.
CANTERBURY STAFF OFFICIAL 🍸
Her fingers trembled just a fraction as she tapped the message open.
Admin: Attention all staff. The private overnight event scheduled for tonight has been canceled by the host. No staff are required to report for duty. Enjoy your night off. Thank you.
Amelia stared at the glowing white screen until the words began to blur. Canceled. The word felt much heavier than it should have, like a stone dropping into the pit of her stomach.
Iris noticed the sudden stillness immediately. She sat up, her eyes narrowing. “What is it? Did they add a morning shift?”
Amelia didn’t speak. She simply handed the phone over.
Iris read the message once. Then again. Her expression shifted rapidly—confusion first, then a cold disbelief, and finally an anger that flared hot and sharp.
“What?” Iris snapped, tossing the phone onto the coffee table. “Canceled? Just like that? We spent all afternoon... we spent money we didn't have!”
Amelia nodded slowly, her gaze returning to the window. “Looks like it.”
Iris shot to her feet, pacing the small rug. “Are you serious right now? He invited you, Amelia. He told you to come. He knew you weren’t on the clock, and he couldn’t even send a single text? A five-second message to say 'Hey, things changed'?”
Amelia swallowed hard. Her chest felt tight, as if an invisible hand were pressing down on her lungs. “I guess something important must have come up,” she said, her voice small and quiet.
“That’s not the point!” Iris shot back, her protective streak in full force. “The point is respect. You don't treat people like they’re disposable. Especially not you.”
Amelia looked down at her phone again. It sat on the table, dark and silent. No missed calls. No personalized apologies. No explanation for why the world had suddenly turned cold.
Iris stopped her pacing and turned to her friend. “Call him.”
Amelia shook her head almost immediately. “No.”
“What do you mean, 'no'?” Iris asked, her voice rising. “He owes you an explanation, Mel. You don't just stand someone up through a group staff memo.”
Amelia’s voice was calm, but it carried a newfound weight—a quiet dignity that stopped Iris in her tracks. “If he wanted to explain, Iris, he would have. He has my number.”
Iris frowned, her shoulders dropping. “You’re just going to let it go? Just like that?”
Amelia walked over to the couch and sat down slowly, her body feeling heavier than it ever had before.
“I don’t want to chase someone who couldn’t find a moment to think of me,” she said. The words surprised even her, but they felt true.
Iris softened, the fire in her eyes dying down into a weary sadness. She sat beside Amelia, the silence between them growing heavy. “Maybe he’s just really busy. Maybe something serious happened. You know, with his family or something.”
“Maybe,” Amelia agreed softly. “But I’m tired, Iris.”
She leaned her head back against the cushion, staring up at the cracked ceiling. She was tired of hoping for things that felt out of reach. Tired of waiting for a life that didn't seem to want her. Tired of feeling like something fragile that could be forgotten the moment things got complicated.
Iris sat closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I just don’t like how this feels. It feels... wrong.”
“Me neither,” Amelia admitted.
They sat in the quiet for a long time, the only sound the hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen. Finally, Iris sighed. “So… what now? We have the whole night.”
Amelia thought about the dress folded carefully in the bag. She thought about the shoes she’d looked at with longing and the excitement she’d tried so hard to suppress all afternoon.
“We stay home,” Amelia said. “We sleep.”
Iris blinked. “Sleep? On a Saturday night with no work?”
Amelia nodded. “A real sleep. No thumping bass from the club. No neon lights. No pretending to be happy for tips. Just us.”
Iris studied Amelia’s face, seeing the quiet resolve there. She slowly smiled—not a happy smile, but one of deep, sisterly understanding.
“Okay,” she said. “Sleep it is.”
They changed into their oldest, most comfortable pajamas. Iris put her phone on silent with a dramatic, final flick of her wrist. Amelia plugged hers in across the room and placed it face down on the table. No checking for messages. No waiting for a buzz that wouldn't come.
They brushed their teeth side by side in the cramped bathroom, their reflections looking back at them—tired, honest, and familiar.
When the lights finally went out, the apartment grew still. As Amelia lay in the darkness, she thought about Leo. She didn't feel angry, and she didn't feel the romance she had felt earlier. She just felt a profound sense of honesty.
She wondered what kind of crisis could make someone cancel an entire world. She wondered why the silence of a phone felt louder than the music of a crowded club. and she wondered if this was a sign—a warning that she and Leo Morell were never meant to occupy the same space.
Beside her, Iris whispered into the dark, “Tomorrow will be better, Mel.”
Amelia closed her eyes, letting the darkness pull at her. “I hope so,” she replied.
And for the first time in a long time, the night passed without the rhythm of the city. There were no crowds, no champagne, no brothers fighting for attention. Just two girls, a quiet room, and the kind of deep, dreamless sleep that only comes when exhaustion finally claims what hope has left behind.
- Writer
