Amelia stood like a statue, hands clenched at her sides.
Violet helped herself to the chair beside Ethan's.Her fingers trailed along his mug, lifted it, sipped—like she owned it.Like she owned him.
"You still take your coffee bitter, hmm?"Her voice dripped like honey, each syllable a trap.
Amelia's jaw tightened."You must be confusing the past with the present."
Violet smiled sweetly."Oh darling. I never confuse what I've already tasted."
It wasn't just jealousy.It was rage—that quiet, elegant rage only women weaponize over breakfast tables and old flames.
Amelia didn't know if she wanted to throw the coffee at Violetor throw herself into Ethan's arms just to make a point.
But under that boiling rage…was pain.
Because some part of her remembered.Not fully.But enough.
Enough to know that Violet wasn't just a guest.
She had once been a wedge.And Amelia had been the one bleeding.
The room felt like a cracked mirror—every reflection off-angle,every word laced with shards of a past she couldn't fully seebut could feel cutting.
Violet's voice was a scalpel.Ethan's silence was the wound.
And Amelia—was the girl on the operating table,trying not to scream.
Then it hit.
A flash.A memory.Violet's hand slamming down a piece of paper.
A divorce agreement.Amelia crying.Ethan outside the door, never walking in.
"He didn't fight for you," Violet had said back then."Because deep down, he knows you're the mistake."
Amelia's breath hitched.Her chair scraped backward as she stood.
"I'm going out," she said coldly.
Ethan stood."Amelia—"
She didn't turn.
"If she's the past you couldn't bury… maybe I'm the future you never deserved."
The door slammed.And for the first time, it was Ethan who chased.
But he was already too late.Because some doors—when slammed—echo into memories.