I don't sleep that night.
The red notebook sits on my nightstand, its worn leather cover catching the faint glow of the city lights through my bedroom window. I've read it twice already—every entry, every observation, every carefully recorded moment from a woman I used to be. But I can't stop thinking about it. Can't stop replaying her words in my mind.
He talks to my ficus when he thinks I'm not listening. His ears turn pink when I thank him. I think—I think he might love me. And I think I might love him too.
She was going to tell him. The old Vivian—the cold, efficient billionaire who fired chefs and wore black like armor—was going to tell Lucas she loved him. She was going to try to let him in.
She never got the chance.
