The question had barely left Valerie's lips when something cold and sudden splashed across her chest.
For a split second, her mind refused to process it.
Then the chill seeped through the fabric of her white dress, clinging to her skin, turning the material sheer in an instant. The café chatter seemed to dim around her as her breath caught, her fingers instinctively tightening around the edge of the table.
Regina froze mid-sentence.
Valerie slowly lifted her gaze.
A woman stood in front of their table, holding an empty glass, her lips curled in thin disdain. The dress she wore—elegant, soft, almost identical in cut and shade to Valerie's—made something in Valerie's chest tighten sharply.
Recognition came like a blow.
Andrea White.
The same woman Sylvia had spoken about so lightly, so wistfully. The same "sweet girl." The same former fiancée.
Andrea tilted her head slightly, eyes raking over Valerie from head to toe before settling on the soaked fabric clinging to her.
