Silver woke with a dull ache behind her eyes, sleep still clinging to the corners of her mind. Sunlight streamed through the blinds in quiet stripes, catching the lazy drift of dust in the air. Outside, the city moved—soft engines, faint horns, the distant clatter of life resuming. It should've felt like any other morning. But it didn't.
She stretched beneath the duvet, a breath of contentment rising in her chest. Her lips curled faintly as the memory of last night brushed over her skin like a second sheet. The weight of his arm, the sound of his voice, the heat they'd shared—it was all still there.
She reached across the bed, half-expecting to find his hand, the warmth of his body. Just sheets. Still. Cool. Her gaze drifted to the pillow next to hers—flattened, already cooling—and then to the robe draped over the chair, the shoes lined neatly near the door.
Gone.
A shiver ran through her as the memory of the night returned—the press of his hands, the reverent hunger in his mouth. The rhythm of him against her returned in waves, curling low in her belly, leaving her wet with desire. The hush of night, the trapped heat between them, the rasp of his voice, the laugh tangled with her gasp—she had been unraveled in his arms, part of her never quite stitched back together.
And yet, despite a night filled with passion, he had left. Back to his fiancée. The night, all of it, seemed to hold no meaning for him, as if their closeness had been a fleeting diversion. She stared out the window, letting the city's hum fill the silence, trying to ground herself.
Perhaps he had gotten scared, she thought. Scared of the child, of the responsibility, of what they might become.
She shook her head slightly, chiding herself. She was scared too, but she couldn't escape, even if she wanted to.
Her eyes moved toward the kitchen. Eggs and toast, something simple and inviting, sat on a small plate, steam curling from golden toast, butter glistening, herbs scattered over soft eggs.
Silver draped her nightwear across her shoulders and walked slowly into the kitchen, bare feet whispering against the cool tiles. She pulled out a chair and lowered herself onto it, her gaze settling on the plate of food.
She glanced at the folded note leaning against it: Had work. Eat when you wake up.
Her shoulders relaxed, and she let out a slow, quiet exhale. He hadn't left—not like she thought.
She raised the fork, hesitated, then let it hover uselessly; her stomach churned, rejecting even the thought of taking a bite.
If she was honest, the engagement to Princess still prickled in the back of her mind, a quiet sting she tried to push aside.
She had asked him once, in the nights they were together, if he wanted to get married. His reply had been blunt, without hesitation: "I'm not the kind of man who makes vows." She had laughed then. Now, the memory carved through her like a blade. Never, he had said. Yet here he was, engaged.
Her phone buzzed. Once, twice, then more urgently. She ignored it until the sound became impossible to drown out.
"Why aren't you here?" Morticia's voice cut through the silence, sharp as ever.
Silver's gaze fell to the phone screen. Monday. Her stomach sank.
"I—I went to see the doctor," she lied, her voice hoarse.
There was a pause.
"You didn't ask," Morticia said coolly. "Princess is waiting."
She muttered an apology as she ended the call. Her hands hovered over her stomach, unconscious, protective.
Could she carry this baby safely? Give it a life better than the one she had known? Could she trust him again?
A jolt of tension ran through her shoulders at the thought of repeating her parents' mistakes, of becoming the kind of parent who tried to live through their children. Her fingers pressed into the edge of the table, nails digging lightly into the wood. She had never been ready, and now everything depended on her.
Silver rose, moving deliberately as she crossed to the wardrobe. A flowy dress caught her eye, soft, simple. As the fabric fell over her shoulders, her reflection caught in the mirror. For a long moment, she did not look away.
She brushed a strand of hair from her face and smoothed the dress over her shoulders. Shifting her weight, fingers pressing lightly to the table for balance, she lifted her chin, shoulders squaring. Her eyes scanned the jawline and mouth in the mirror, each gesture a quiet reminder of the strength she had built into her bones, of everything she had endured.
Night after night, after he left her, she had called the only number he gave her. It never rang. He was gone, just like that.
It had been a low season: business school behind her, her father's voice still heavy in her ears, disappointment thick as fog. No direction. No money. No Edward. The silence left behind had been a kind of death. Yet she had clawed her way back.
Del Rosa had offered her a thread of hope. Morticia, though rigid, had seen something in her. Slowly, painfully, she had learned to rebuild. Each sketch, each late night reorganizing racks, each moment she stood instead of crumbled—she became someone new.
She lifted a hand to the mirror, pressing lightly against the glass. The woman staring back had been broken, small, desperate. But no longer—she had survived.
With steady fingers, she slipped her sketchbook into her bag. The untouched breakfast sat quietly under its napkin, forgotten.
Drawing a deep breath, she stepped toward the door. The day outside was bright, humming with life. As it closed behind her, the chill in the air met the steel in her spine.
Princess, Edward, the fragile career she had fought to build—none of it would wait.
The city rose to meet her, pulsing with sound, color, purpose. She was still here, still standing, still aching—for what was and for what might be.
But she would face it. All of it.