The fork clinked against her plate.Amelia pushed scrambled eggs across the porcelain surface without eating.
Across from her, he sipped his black coffee—calm, too calm.His eyes didn't leave her.Not once.
She looked up, forcing a thin smile."You always make breakfast like this?"
He smirked."Only when I know you won't eat it."
Her hands went still.
There it was again.That split-second moment where her breath caught—not from anger, but from the echo of something real.
A version of her that laughed at his sarcasm.That stole his coffee when she thought he wasn't looking.That trusted him.
That version haunted her like a shadow that refused to leave.
But shadows were just reminders of the light—and she wasn't sure she could stand in it anymore.
This breakfast wasn't a meal.
It was a stage.Every sip, every scrape of cutlery was choreography in a silent war.
The tension between them wasn't screaming.It was buzzing—like a low electrical current beneath the skin.A threat.A promise.
And then—
The doorbell rang.
He stood to answer it.
She stayed seated.
Seconds later, a voice echoed from the hallway—feminine, sweet, and far too familiar.
"Sorry I'm early, I didn't know you already had… company."
Amelia stood up.Her pulse didn't race.It thundered.
In stepped a woman. Slender. Confident.Eyes that knew the layout of this house better than she did.
"Amelia," he said, tense."This is Violet."
The name hit like a slap.Not because it was new—but because her memory whispered it like a warning.
Violet. The woman who once told you he'd never choose you.
Amelia smiled.Fake.Poisoned.
"Lovely to meet the woman who walked into my house like she still owned it."
Violet blinked.Then smirked.
"Well… old habits die hard."
And just like that—breakfast became war.