The apartment was dim when she stepped inside, the kind of dusky half-light that settled in corners like forgotten memories. A single lamp flickered in the living room, casting a soft amber glow over threadbare cushions and a coffee table cluttered with glitter glue, colored pencils, and a lone teacup—Dina's unfinished masterpiece still drying beside it.
Venessa shut the door quietly behind her, pressing her back to the wood.
Venessa crouched down slowly, her knees creaking from exhaustion and the weight of too many days spent carrying dreams too heavy for one pair of hands.
Then the scent of lavender soap and tomato soup greeted her first—Dina's usual scent trail. The living room was dim except for the flicker of a cartoon on mute and the glow of fairy lights tangled over a bookshelf.
From the hallway upstairs, Divas's tiny footsteps padded across hardwood. He peeked around the corner and then left.
Dina was curled up on the couch in her unicorn pajamas, legs tucked under a fuzzy blanket, her big eyes hopeful even before she spoke, clutching a blanket that had once belonged to their mother.
"Did you go see him?" she asked, voice fragile as porcelain.
Venessa shook her head. "No, sweetheart. I didn't."
Dina's eyes dimmed a little. "Did you talk to him on call?"
Venessa gave a weary smile as she slipped off her coat. "No."
Dina blinked, confused. "But… you will, right?"
Venessa paused, then moved to the couch, sitting down beside her little sister, folding her legs. She looked down at her hands for a long moment then looked her sister in the eye, brushing back a lock of hair with the same gentleness their mother used to. "Dina, my love...what happened? Happened for a reason. I've got nothing more to offer him, and so does he. Apparently, it seems he never fall for me when I did back then. So, no. We're never, ever getting back together."
"But…" Dina's voice wobbled. "He's better than most, right? It's not like he cheated on you like those guys did with Jane or Laila. I still think he was… genuine."
That made Venessa still. For a second, the room went quiet except for the hum of city traffic outside and the clink of rain at the windows. She turned her head and studied Dina's face—so open, so innocent. So easily charmed by pretty faces and sweet lies.
It scared her. God, it scared her.
Because once upon a time, Laila had that same dreamy look. And Venessa had held her sister through the wreckage more times than she could count—mascara running, drunk at 3 a.m., sobbing over people who never stayed.
There's nothing inherently wrong with the way Laila lived. Nothing wrong with open love, or free love, or messy, aching, passionate love—until it burns straight through your chest. Until it leaves you hollow.
Venessa reached over and gently smoothed Dina's hair behind her ear. "Dina… loving someone doesn't mean they're good for you. Sometimes the people who don't hurt you still don't choose you. And that can cut just as deep."
"But you smiled when he was around," Dina whispered, like a secret.
"Yeah," Venessa murmured, leaning back against the cushions. "And then I cried when he wasn't."
Dina didn't answer. Her little hand slipped into Venessa's, warm and soft.
Venessa stared at the ceiling. "Listen to me, Dina. Don't chase pretty. Don't chase the ones who make you feel like you have to be more to be enough. Love should feel safe. Even when it's messy. Especially when it's messy."
"But what if it never feels that way?" Dina asked.
Venessa looked at her, and her chest ached with the kind of love that comes only from protecting something fragile. "Then you don't settle. You build a life so good, so rich, that love's the cherry, not the cake. Got it?"
Dina nodded slowly, her brows furrowed in thought.
"Okay," she whispered. "But if I do find someone with a pretty face… you won't be mad?"
Venessa laughed—quiet and cracked—but real. "No, munchkin. I'll just interrogate him first."
And as the cartoon flickered in the background and the rain softened outside, Venessa pulled Dina into her arms. Tired. Bruised. But still here.
Still choosing herself. One night at a time.
....
The bookstore smelled like paper, ink, and exhaustion.
Venessa's hands were full—sketchpad refills, crayons, twin sets of beginner chapter books for Sam and Sophie, and a tin of novelty erasers shaped like sushi. It was supposed to be a quick stop before the night bus home.
She hadn't even thought about him.
Not after throwing that black-and-gold envelope in the trash takeout. Not after telling herself—again and again—that the man she'd once loved was just a fever dream wrapped in Armani and entitlement.
But fate? Fate was petty.
Because as she pushed open the bookstore doors at 8:45 p.m., juggling her paper bags—he was there.
Damon.
Leaning against his car like heartbreak hadn't aged him a day. A high-end black coupe idling quietly at the curb, headlights low, the kind of car that didn't belong on streets like hers. And in the passenger seat, a woman. Red lipstick. Sculpted cheekbones. Something designer draped around her shoulders.
Venessa's entire body went still. Her grip tightened on the paper bags.
Of all the people. Of all the places.
He looked up, almost like he hadn't meant to be caught watching her. He looked... human. Less polished. Like maybe the world had finally scuffed him a little. Or maybe the man had lost his charm to her.
But she didn't care.
She kept walking. Fast. Determined. She didn't have time for ghosts dressed in regret.
"Venessa," he called, not loud—but enough to slow her feet.
She froze. "You've got to be kidding me."
He pushed off the car slowly, like he wasn't sure if he had the right to move.
"I didn't know where else to go."
She arched a brow, all edge. "You could've tried hell."
His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, more like a reflexive wince. "I deserved that."
"You shouldn't be here, Damon."
"I know."
"Then why are you?"
"Because…" His voice was low, raw. "Because I saw you yesterday. At the café."
Venessa narrowed her eyes. "So?"
"You looked happy. And that should've made me feel... relieved." He paused. "But it didn't. It felt like losing something I thought I had more time to win back."
She adjusted her bags, the crinkle of paper loud between them. "You think this is charming? You think showing up here, uninvited, with another woman in your car while you wax poetic about what you could've had—that's supposed to mean something to me?"
"She's not—" He glanced toward the woman still in his car, now staring at her phone. "This isn't what it looks like."
Venessa laughed, one sharp exhale that didn't touch her eyes. "No, Damon. It's exactly what it looks like. You always did like having backup."
He stepped closer. "I didn't plan this."
"You never plan. That's the problem."
The car honked once. A light, polite beep.
Venessa turned away.
But he didn't move.
"Please," he said. "Just five minutes."
She didn't look at him. "You had years. "
Then she walked off, her boots splashing through a puddle, chin high, heart thudding like it was trying to crawl back up her throat.
And behind her, the woman in the car leaned over and whispered something to Damon.
Venessa didn't hear it. She didn't need to.
She was done translating his silences.