“You two are so perfect together.”
I look up. Marilyn has lowered her camera and is gazing at my phone screen with a wistful expression. Not mocking. Not cruel. Genuinely wistful.
“I’ve seen how he is with you,” she continues. “The way he looks at you. Like you hung the moon.”
My heart clenches. That’s exactly how Devyn used to look at me.
Before.
“Er.” I clear my throat. “How is he with me, exactly?”
Marilyn sighs. “He adores you. Can’t take his eyes off you.” Her expression flickers. “I wish I could say the same about my ex—”
They’ve broken up?!
In my world—my original world—Marilyn walked in here with a designer engagement ring. She was getting married. She was the bride.
“Amos,” Marilyn finishes.
And the fiancé’s name is Amos?!
That can’t be a coincidence. It can’t.
“I’m so sorry about your breakup,” I manage.
Marilyn shrugs, but there’s pain behind it. “Don’t be. I had a lucky escape, honestly. My college friend Abigail—”
I nearly fall out of my heels.
“—did some digging. That’s when she discovered what he really is.” Marilyn’s voice hardens. “He’s made a living out of sweeping women off their feet. Gets them to take out loans for wedding surprises, romantic gestures, whatever. Only the surprise is that he runs away with the money and leaves them with a debt they can’t pay.”
My blood runs cold.
Amos. Con artist. Preying on women.
Same name. Same pattern. Different world.
Heart’s voice cuts across the studio. “Marilyn! I need you over here!”
Marilyn winces. “Excuse me, please.”
“Yes, of course,” I say in a daze.
She hurries away, and I collapse onto a nearby couch, my wedding dress pooling around me like a white cloud.
Maybe I really was meant to come here. Maybe Hewhay brought me back for a reason.
But is Amos here like Amos there? Is he just a con artist in this world...or something worse?
An assistant appears at my elbow. Young, nervous, holding a delicate teacup.
“Tea, Miss Sutton? You look like you could use something warm.”
I stare at the cup. Steam curls from the surface. The liquid is amber-gold, catching the light.
Tea.
Some distant part of my brain fires a warning. Tea at Hewhay’s. Tea before everything changed. Tea that tasted like belonging and felt like being unmade.
