Her expression turned wounded, a deliberate pull of her lips and widening of her eyes that screamed theatrics. Damon turned to me, his tone sharp. “Amara, that’s enough. You don’t have to be rude.”
“She’s—” I started, but Miranda cut me off, her voice feigning remorse.
“I shouldn’t have intervened. I’m sorry, Amara. Truly. I’ll head to my office now.” She picked up a file from the desk, her movements slow and deliberate as she turned back to Damon. “See you later, Damon.”
Before she could leave, her heel caught on the carpet, and she yelped, crumpling to the floor. Damon rushed to her side, concern flooding his face as he knelt beside her.
“Miranda, are you okay?” His voice was soft, tender.
She winced, gripping his arm dramatically. “No, I think I sprained my ankle.”
Damon gently removed her shoe, inspecting her foot as she clung to him. She whimpered, casting a quick, triumphant glance in my direction. My stomach churned as I stood frozen, invisible in the room where I should’ve been the most significant person.
“I’ll help you to your office,” Damon said, slipping an arm around her waist as he helped her stand.
“Damon,” I called softly, stepping forward, holding up the contract. “I’ve got—”
“Let’s talk later at home, Amara,” he said without looking at me. Then, with Miranda leaning heavily on him, he walked away, leaving me standing there alone.
For an hour, I waited. I paced his office, the contract burning in my hands, the seconds ticking by like thunderclaps in my ears. He didn’t return. My chest ached as I set the file on his desk, the culmination of weeks of effort discarded like an afterthought. Again, he had chosen her. Again, I was left behind.
The ride home was a blur of tears and muted pain. The living room greeted me with silence, its vast emptiness amplifying the ache in my chest. I called Damon’s number, but it went unanswered.
“It’s our anniversary,” I whispered to the void. Seven years together, and this was how it felt—like nothing.
I slumped onto the couch, exhaustion pulling me under. My eyes landed on the small box I’d left on the table earlier that morning. Tentatively, I reached for it, unwrapping it slowly. Inside lay the sweater I’d spent the last three nights sewing, my hands raw from pricks and burns. I lifted it, tracing the careful stitching with my fingers, my scarred hand trembling. Damon had barely glanced at it this morning, his focus on his phone, his lips curling into a smile at something Miranda had said on the other end.
I closed my eyes, memories of our fifth anniversary flooding back. He had planned a candlelit dinner on the rooftop, complete with fairy lights and music. We had danced under the stars, his arms wrapped around me as he whispered promises of forever. But tonight, those promises felt like distant echoes.
The clock ticked on, dragging me toward despair, until my phone buzzed. I grabbed it quickly, hope flaring. It was a message from Damon.
{Hello, babe. Happy anniversary. Let’s celebrate it at Le Château Étoilé. I’ve booked the restaurant for the whole night for us.}
A small, hesitant smile crept onto my face. Le Château Étoilé was one of California’s finest restaurants, a place I’d begged Damon to take me for weeks. Maybe he hadn’t forgotten after all. Maybe this was his way of making things right.
I hurried upstairs, my heart lighter. There was no need for extravagant makeup or dresses—Damon loved me best in my simplicity. By the time I arrived at the restaurant, the grand exterior gleamed under the moonlight. It was everything I’d imagined—luxurious, elegant, and perfect.
I approached the entrance, excitement bubbling in my chest. Two welcoming staff members stood by the door, their polished smiles faltering as they saw me.
“Good evening,” I said, my voice warm. “I have a reservation. My fiancé, Damon McCain, booked the entire night.”
Their eyes met, amusement flickering before one stifled a laugh. “You? Damon McCain’s fiancée?”
I straightened. “Yes.”
The other scoffed, shaking her head. “It’s not every day women roll off the street claiming to be Mr. McCain’s fiancée.”
“Excuse me?” My voice sharpened, anger bubbling beneath the surface.
The blonde staff member smirked. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But no, you’re not on the list.”
“Check again,” I demanded, my patience fraying.
She disappeared, returning with an older woman who introduced herself as the restaurant's Manager.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” I explained. “Damon McCain made a reservation here for tonight—for our anniversary.”
The manager’s expression hardened. “We’ve checked thoroughly. Mr. McCain hasn’t made any reservations.”
“You’re lying,” I said, desperation creeping into my tone. “It’s our anniversary. He told me—”
The blonde interrupted with a sneer. “It’s either you’re trying to scam your way into this establishment, or you’re delusional. Either way, leave now, or we’ll call security.”
My world tilted, their words ringing louder than they should. This couldn’t be happening. Not tonight. Not Damon.
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My thoughts tangled and unraveled like threads pulled too tightly. Why was things turning out like this ? Was he pulling some cruel prank? No, that wasn’t like him—or at least, it hadn’t been. But then again, so much about him had changed lately.
The cold bit into my skin as I stepped out of the restaurant’s warm glow and into the frosty night. I stopped by the security post, the dim light overhead casting a harsh glare. My fingers trembled as I dialed Damon’s number. The line rang, over and over, until I heard his voice.
“Oh, Amara,” he said, his tone light, distracted. “What’s up?”
“Damon.” My voice cracked despite my effort to sound composed. “Where are you? I’m at the restaurant. I wasn’t let in because…” I hesitated, shame tightening around me like a noose. “Because they said you didn’t make a reservation.”
