Chapter Four

## AMARA

The food was good.

That was the part that made it worse, somehow—sitting across from Antonio’s empty chair, eating the breakfast he had made with his own hands.

I forced myself to chew, tasting the butter and the salt, but all I could think about was the ordinary domesticity of a man who didn't know I had felt his hands on my back, heard the air whistle past my ears as I fell.

I finished every bite. I had to. I needed the strength for the war ahead.

Antonio came out of the shower with a towel slung low around his waist. He was moving at that particular, frantic pace he always had when his mind was already three steps ahead of his body—half in the room, half already at his meeting. He looked so clean. So innocent. It made my blood turn to ice.

"You liked it," he said. It wasn’t a question; he was used to being the provider of my joy.

"Thank you," I said, stretching my lips into a smile that felt like it might crack my face.

He took the dishes without being asked, his movements fluid and helpful. When he came back, he started buttoning his crisp white shirt. I watched him the way you watch a ticking bomb—trying to memorize the mechanics while praying for it to stay silent.

"You know I love you, Amara."

He said it the way he said everything—easily, like the words cost him nothing. Like they were just a currency he used to keep me compliant.

*Do I?* I thought, my heart thudding a hollow rhythm. *Do I know that? Or do I just know how well you say it?*

"You should know," he continued, stepping toward me. His voice dropped into that low, silk-wrapped register he knew worked on me. He invaded my space, smelling of sandalwood and betrayal. "That you are the only thing that makes sense in my life."

He leaned in, his eyes dark and warm, seeking my mouth.

I put my hand flat against his chest. I could feel his heartbeat—steady, rhythmic, unbothered by guilt. I pushed—gently, but with a hard, unyielding intention.

"You're going to be late for your meeting."

He pulled back, his lips twisting into a pout, feigning injury. "Ouch. Rejected by my own woman."

"Go, Antonio."

He laughed, the sound bright and carefree. He managed to steal a quick kiss on my cheek before I could recoil, picked up his suitcase, and then he was gone. The door clicked shut, and the silence that followed was so heavy I felt like I was being buried alive.

I stood in the middle of the sitting room and let the quiet come. I exhaled slowly, all the way down to the bottom of my lungs, trying to purge the scent of him.

I walked to the window and pressed my palm flat against the cold glass. London was doing what London always did—grey, relentless, and completely indifferent to the private disasters of the people moving through it. I watched a black cab cut across a bus lane. Two men in suits were arguing over a latte. A woman in a yellow coat was being dragged along by her dog.

Ordinary. All of it so devastatingly ordinary.

I closed my eyes. *Okay,* I whispered to the empty room. *You are here. You are alive.*

But the question followed immediately, cold and sharp: *For how long?*

I stepped back before that thought could swallow me and went to find my phone.

---

It was on the bedside table. The screen lit up when I touched it—*March 19, 2019. 10:23 AM.* I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the numbers.

Eleven messages. Two missed calls from my mother. One from Charlotte. And then, a number I didn't immediately recognize—and then did—and then wished I hadn't.

**Jason.**

The name sent a jolt of electricity through me, a sharp, jagged pain that had nothing to do with Antonio and everything to do with a life I had tried to bury. I set the phone face down on the mattress.

Then I picked it up again. Then I put it down. My hands were shaking.

"Not yet," I said out loud, my voice firm, the way you speak to a child or a ghost. "One thing at a time."

The phone buzzed, vibrating against the duvet. *Who is it now?* I muttered, flipping it over.

**Sasha.**

A chill went down my spine. *Speak of the devil.*

I picked up. "Hello?"

"Hey you!" Her voice came through the speaker, warm and honeyed. It was all softness on the surface, but now I could hear the hollow echo underneath. "How are you feeling? Antonio said you were unwell this morning."

"I'm fine."

"You sure?" A beat of practiced disbelief. "You sounded a bit... off."

"I'm fine, Sasha. You know Antonio—he exaggerates. He worries about nothing."

"Fair enough." She paused, and I could almost hear her smile through the line. "So listen, I was thinking—"

"What were you thinking?"

"It’s been a while since we did something fun. I was planning a little something tonight. For Antonio, actually." There was a lilt of excitement in her voice—the sound of a conspirator. "You know he just got promoted—I thought we could celebrate."

I went completely still. My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned white.

*He just got promoted.*

She knew. She already knew, and in my previous life, I hadn't known at all. They had shared this before me. They had shared *everything* before me.

"What did you have in mind?" I kept my voice easy. Curious. The perfect, unsuspecting sister.

"Nothing serious. Just a small thing at mine—nothing fancy. Seven o'clock. Wear something nice, though. You know how he likes to see you dressed up."

"I'll be there," I said.

"*Amazing!*"

"Do I need to bring anything?" I asked, my voice as smooth as a polished stone.

"Just yourself! See you at seven, sis."

She hung up.

I sat with the phone in both hands and let the memory rise, hot and suffocating, to the surface. The clock wasn't counting years. It was counting the hours of my life.

March 19, 2019. Sasha’s flat in Kensington. *Just a small thing, nothing fancy.* Word for word—the same script she had used six years ago. I remembered the blue dress I had worn.

I remembered how my hair looked. I remembered walking through that door and the room erupting with "Surprise!" and Antonio standing in the center of the chaos, dropping to one knee with a diamond that caught the light.

I had said yes before he even finished the sentence. I had cried until I couldn't see.

My engagement party. My *surprise* engagement party.

And it was happening again. Tonight. Same flat, same date, same lies—and I was the only person in the world who knew how the play ended.

I set the phone down slowly.

I wasn't sure what I was going to do yet. The rage was there, a dark, pulsing thing, but beneath it was a cold, calculating logic.

I knew the dress. I knew the smell of the room. I knew the exact pitch of the cheers. I knew the look on his face.

The only question was whether I was going to give him the answer he was expecting. Or if I was going to burn the theater down while everyone was still in their seats.