Amara.
By Monday morning, I had convinced myself I was ready to face him again.
Lucien.
All weekend, his voice had lived in my head, deep and steady, wrapping around my thoughts like smoke. I tried to distract myself with anything that would keep me sane. I cleaned the kitchen, ruined a pot of pasta, watched a show I couldn’t follow. None of it worked.
Every time I blinked, I saw him. The way he had looked at me that day in his office—quiet, assessing, as if he could see through my skin and find the truth hiding underneath.
Gracie didn’t help either. She called me three times on Saturday, insisting I “live a little,” accusing me of being “the poster child for self-control.” The words stuck, digging under my ribs.
So by Monday, I decided to prove her wrong. I wasn’t boring. I could be
