The clatter of dishes echoed through the narrow kitchen. Amelia wiped her hands on her apron and glanced toward the clock—thirty minutes left on her shift.
“Table seven wants refills," Marta called.
“On it," Amelia said, grabbing the pot of burnt coffee.
As she moved toward the table, her phone buzzed in her apron pocket.
**Unknown number.**
She frowned.
**Are you still seeing him?** the message read.
She froze.
The screen flicked again.
**He's not good enough for you. None of them are.**
She backed into the staff corridor, heart pounding.
“Damian," she whispered.
---
That night, she met Grant outside the library.
He looked worn, eyes shadowed.
“Hey," she greeted.
He didn't smile. “We can't keep meeting like this."
“What?"
“I'm sorry, Amelia. I—I can't afford another inci
