Chapter 3 - A Night of Regret

Amelia’s POV 

[Two days later]

"I just can't believe he would do this to me, Liz," I sighed, my voice trembling as I blinked back tears. 

My best friend Liz and I were sipping cocktails at the edge of the Conrad Hotel’s infinity pool.

Liz is a genius and the person who understands me best. This place is definitely a better place than a bar for me to quietly sip my sadness and cleverly hide my tears.

The city skyline stretched in the distance, glittering like nothing had gone wrong.

But everything had.

Liz handed me another cocktail, her jaw tight with rage. "You shouldn’t have agreed to any of this, Amelia. He replaced you on your own damn wedding day. With your sister."

"I didn’t agree," I said quietly, staring into the pink swirl of my drink. "He forced the decision on me. Like it was already made."

She scoffed. "What an idiot. He has no idea what he’ll be missing. Amelia, you’ve loved that man for how long? Years? And this is what you get in return?"

Her words hit like a slap. I still loved Tristan. I had given up so much to fit the role of his perfect wife. I had learned how to carry myself with grace, studied his world, attended his endless galas and dinners. 

I shaped myself into the kind of woman who could stand by a man like Tristan Lancaster. But now I was nothing but a footnote in his tragedy.

"Sometimes I think," I murmured, "he never really wanted me at all. When I found him with Victoria, I asked him if he ever actually wanted to marry me."

Liz leaned forward. "And? What did he say?"

 My question had clearly infuriated him, and he’d just spit the painful truth in my face.

"He said…" The memory was still fresh, like an open wound. 

At that time, Tristan had let out a cold laugh, "Yes, I considered marrying you, Amelia—at first. You were the safer choice. Older and stable. It would've been easier to maintain appearances with you."

It hit me like a blow to the heart. The suffering still lingers even now.

"Are you serious?" Liz's voice was sharp, pulling me from the memory. "He talked about marrying you like it was a business acquisition."

I nodded slowly. "That’s all I ever was, wasn’t I?"

"No, Amelia. You are a beautiful, intelligent, kind young woman. Not an object he can just discard and replace. You need to walk away. Let him rot in the mess he created. You deserve so much more than this." 

She took a breath, then continued more gently. "You can’t just replace Victoria when she’s gone. You can’t wait in the shadows for a man who sees you like that. You have to break it off. For good."

I looked away. Part of me wanted to scream, to agree with her, to swear off Tristan forever. But the other part—the quiet, wounded part—still ached with love.

"You still love him," she said softly.

"I can’t help it."

Elizabeth got out of the pool and wrapped a towel around her waist. "Well, I can. And I’ll keep reminding you how valuable you are until you remember too." 

She squeezed my shoulder. "Sleep it off, okay? Think it through. I booked a room for you downstairs. All your drinks are on my tab. I’ll check in with you tomorrow."

She left, heels clicking across the stone tiles, leaving me alone with my drink and my bleeding heart.

Rationally, I knew she was right. But emotionally? Emotionally, I was drowning.

So I drank.

One cocktail turned into two. Then three. Then I stopped counting. The world softened, my heartbreak blurring around the edges.

The rooftop bar spun gently as I climbed out of the pool, skin damp, head heavy with alcohol and heartbreak. 

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed before I found myself stepping out of the pool, droplets glistening on my skin as I wrapped a towel around my body. 

My limbs felt heavy, my mind pleasantly hazy.

I just needed sleep. I just needed to forget. My legs were unsteady as I walked through the long, dimly lit hallway toward my suite.

Then, out of nowhere, an arm slid around my waist.

My heart lurched in my chest and I stumbled back.

"What? Who—?" I gasped, disoriented.

"Shhh," a deep voice whispered against my ear.

Warm lips found mine.

A dazzling storm of kisses followed—hungry, heated, relentless. I staggered under the intensity, caught in the fog of liquor and emotion. 

My hands pressed against his chest instinctively, ready to push him away—until my fingers brushed a familiar brooch pinned to his lapel.

The Lancaster crest.

"Tristan?" I breathed, my voice muffled beneath the press of his lips.

My heart stuttered. It had to be him. Who else could it be?

Had he come here to apologize? To make it right?

He didn’t respond. Instead, his arms tightened around me, lips moving against mine like he couldn’t get enough. In my dazed, aching state, I allowed myself to imagine he was mine again.

The heat between us flared dangerously. My cheeks burned, my pulse hammering through my veins.

I could feel my legs trembling. My skin seemed to spark everywhere he touched.

In my dazed, aching state, I gave in.

I let myself sink into his embrace, my lips parting as I surrendered to the moment—to his breathtaking touch, his irresistible passion. 

I kissed him back. Slowly at first, then deeper. There was heat in his touch, urgency in the way he held me. 

A soft, involuntary sound escaped my throat. He answered it with a low, almost possessive growl against my lips.

My fingers curled into his jacket, drawn to the familiar symbol and everything it had once meant.

Was this his way of telling me he wanted me back? Would I become his Mrs. Lancaster after all?

Only, Tristan had never kissed me like this before.

The passion, the heat—it was raw, unrestrained, like a spark had finally caught fire. It didn’t feel like a reunion. It felt like a first kiss. New. Hungry. Almost... unfamiliar.

What had gotten into him?

******

I woke up the next morning. Sunlight spilled into the room, but the bed beside me was empty.

No note. No man. No answers.

Confused, I sat up, head pounding with the dull rhythm of regret. Before I could fully gather myself, my phone buzzed across the nightstand.

Tristan.

I answered with a mix of nerves and hope. "Tristan? Where did you..."

"Amelia." His tone was cold, clipped. "I called to tell you not to show up at the wedding today. Your presence will only cause problems."

I froze. "Wait… what?" 

Last night. The kisses. The way he held me—

"Tristan, what was that last night?" I asked, heart in my throat. "Why would you come here, and then say this? Didn’t you apologize to me?"

There was a long pause on the other end.

"Come there? Apologize? You must’ve been dreaming, Amelia. I was at the hospital last night. With Victoria."

My stomach dropped.

No.

I went still, the breath sucked from my lungs. "You weren’t at the hotel?"

"No. Why would I be?"

My hand slowly lowered from my ear. The phone call ended, but the silence that followed was deafening.

If Tristan was never here… then who was the man I kissed last night?

And why did he wear the Lancaster crest?