Once, those words would’ve undone me. Years ago, I would’ve reached for him without hesitation. But I’d seen the way his eyes followed Francesca, smelled her perfume lingering on his suits. Whatever part of me once hoped had already gone quiet.
“Fine,” I said, my tone empty. “If you’re serious about making it right, start with my birthday. A real one this time. No allergens. No disappearing acts.”
He blinked, caught off guard. For years, my birthdays had been afterthoughts—rushed dinners, canceled plans, excuses wrapped in silk and diamonds.
After a pause, he nodded.
“Okay. Whatever you want.”
Before he could say more, his phone vibrated. That specific alert—the one reserved for her—rang out. He glanced down, jaw tightening as the screen lit up.
“I need to take this,” he said quickly. “It’s urgent. I’ll be back soon. Don’t stay up.”
The lie was transparent.
“Go,” I said, waving him away. “I’m used to being left.”
He hesitated, then turned and walked out, leaving me alone with the dying embers of something that should’ve ended long ago.