I barely slept that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, Victor's voice drifted back into my head.
If you want to leave… then leave.
And that smirk.
That annoying, infuriating smirk.
I woke up late the next day with sunlight pouring through the curtains and my phone buzzing on the nightstand.
It was Cynthia.
"Don't tell me you're still sleeping," she said the moment I answered.
"I'm awake," I groaned, sitting up and rubbing my eyes.
"You said two o'clock. I'm already here."
"You're early."
"No," she replied. "You're late."
I sighed.
"Give me thirty minutes."
"Twenty."
"Cynthia—"
"Twenty."
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone and laughed despite myself.
Some things never changed.
The café we usually met at sat on the corner of a quiet street, half hidden behind tall trees and glass windows that reflected the afternoon sun.
Cynthia was already there when I arrived.
