Across the couch, the movie credits rolled in silver light. The TV flickered, the glow pulsing in rhythm with my own.
Another message arrived.
(555) 011-1482: Thank you for this, Emma. I won’t fuck it up.
A tiny laugh slipped out—half hope, half despair.
Me: You better not.
Silence stretched, still and expectant.
One breath.
One hesitation.
Then—Add to Contacts.
Not ten digits.
Not Read.
Not the lie.
Just his name.
Damien.
Chapter 15
***
Emma
Morning hit cleaner than I expected. Same light, same air—just no salt on my tongue from crying too hard, no lipstick smeared across my mouth. Even the ache inside me was still there, just muted now. Blunt instead of razor-sharp.
I rolled over, sheets twisted around my legs, and reached blindly for my phone on the nightstand. The sudden brightness stung as I slid to the home screen.
Damien: Good morning.
I blinked at the name. Damien. Not Read.
My heart stuttered—my stomach flipped with it.
Me: Good morning.
The dots appeared. Vanished. Then—
Damien: What are your plans with Candace today?
Another small carryover from Read—his habit of cataloging the small things. My routines, my rituals. The invisible map he’d drawn of my life without ever asking for it. He’d even remembered Sundays were Candace’s. Mostly. Especially the one that rolled around every three weeks.
Me: Nails, then lunch.
I waited—one beat, two—then huffed once and threw the blankets aside. Cold air bit my legs as I stood, making my wayinto the bathroom, grabbing a towel from the hook with my phone still warm in my hand.
Damien: That sounds like a good day.
Me: I’m looking forward to it. Meeting her in an hour—jumping in the shower now. Talk to you later.
