Mall Incident Unveils Past

The bell above the door chimed as I pushed it open, the sound echoing through the small phone repair shop. The place smelled of plastic and electronics, a familiar scent that reminded me of the years I'd spent fixing things rather than replacing them.

"Welcome!" A young technician looked up from behind the counter. "What can we help you with today?"

I smiled, holding out Skyla's broken phone. "My daughter dropped this. The screen cracked, but I think it's just the glass that needs replacing."

The technician nodded sympathetically. "We can definitely fix that for you. It'll be ready by tomorrow afternoon."

"Thank you." I handed over the phone, careful not to let my fingers linger on the cracked screen. "She's going to be so relieved. She doesn't need a new phone—this one works perfectly fine otherwise."

As I spoke, my thumb found its way to my wedding ring, tracing the smooth gold band. It was a habit I'd developed over the years—a small, unconscious gesture that grounded me when memories threatened to surface.

Some days, I still couldn't believe how much my life had changed. Seven years ago, I'd walked away from everything I thought I wanted, broken and humiliated. Now I had Blake, who looked at me like I was the most precious thing in his world, and Skyla, whose laughter filled our home with warmth.

The technician handed me a receipt. "That'll be $79.99 for the repair."

I reached into my purse, pulling out my wallet. "That's actually a relief. I told Skyla we could fix it instead of buying new, and she wasn't sure I could keep that promise."

Fixing things was important to me. Maybe because there were so many things in my past that couldn't be repaired—only left behind.

The shop door opened again, and a woman's voice cut through the quiet atmosphere.

"I can't believe we have to come to a place like this. Couldn't you just buy me a new phone?"

I froze, my hand still in my purse. That voice—high-pitched, complaining, with an edge of superiority that made my skin crawl.

"It's just for a few days, Scarlett." A man's voice responded, deeper and more resigned. "The insurance claim takes time."

My stomach twisted as I turned slowly toward the sound.

Wesley Morrison stood near the entrance, his arm around Scarlett Hawkins' waist. They looked exactly as I remembered—Wesley with his perfectly styled hair and expensive clothes, Scarlett with her manicured nails and designer handbag.

They hadn't noticed me yet.

"I don't see why we couldn't just go to the mall and get a new one," Scarlett continued, her voice carrying across the small space. "This place looks... questionable."

Wesley sighed. "It's just more convenient. And honestly, Scarlett, not everything needs to be brand new all the time."

I watched them, feeling strangely detached. These people had once been the center of my universe—the source of my deepest pain and greatest longing.

"Well, I guess we'll have to make do," Scarlett said, her tone suggesting this was a great sacrifice. "Though I really don't understand why anyone would bother fixing something when they could just buy a new one."

My fingers tightened around my wedding ring as I turned back toward the counter, hoping they wouldn't notice me. Seven years was a long time, but some wounds felt fresher than others.

The technician was typing something into his computer when I heard Scarlett's sharp intake of breath.

"Wesley," she whispered, her voice suddenly tense. "Look over there."

I didn't need to turn around to know they were staring at me.

"Holly?" Wesley's voice cracked slightly, disbelief coloring his tone.

Scarlett's heels clicked across the floor as she moved closer. "Is that really you?"

I took a deep breath and turned to face them, my chin lifted slightly. "Hello, Wesley. Scarlett."

Their expressions shifted from shock to something else—something that made my blood run cold. Their eyes took in my simple jeans and sweater, my practical purse, the fact that I was in a repair shop rather than buying something new.

"Well, well," Scarlett's lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Look at what the cat dragged in."

Wesley's gaze darted between us, his brow furrowed. "Holly, what are you doing here?"

Before I could answer, Scarlett laughed—a brittle sound that echoed through the shop.

"I think the better question is how she ended up here," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Seven years, and this is where you've ended up?"

Wesley's eyes widened slightly as he processed Scarlett's words, and I watched his expression change—shock giving way to something uglier, more satisfying.

He looked at me like I was a bug he'd found crawling across his pristine floor.