That broke Nadia. She sobbed into her hands.
Evelyn waited. Then stood.
“When he calls—and he will—don’t answer. He only calls when he needs to win.”
She paused at the door.
“I came so you wouldn’t make my mistake.”
Then she left.
The lights dimmed. Screens glowed. Numbers fell.
Victor remained.
The skyline mocked him.
A drink poured. Untouched.
A photo frame. Four premature babies. Still faces. Small lives.
He didn’t remember who placed it there. Perhaps Evelyn.
He had ignored it for years.
Now, he stared. Not with love. Not even regret.
With confusion.
He whispered to no one:
“They’ll forget me.”
And somewhere in the city, Evelyn prepared to ensure exactly that.
This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only.
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