Then this morning happened.
The doorbell rang—sharp, impatient.
We weren’t expecting anyone.
I opened the door… and nearly dropped my coffee.
Lauren.
Eighteen years older, surgically polished, dripping in designer labels. She looked me up and down like I was gum stuck to her expensive heel.
“MARK…” she sneered, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “You’re still the same loser. Still living in this… hole? You were supposed to be a MAN. Making money. Building an empire!”
Her words sliced, but I’d been cut before. I didn’t bleed anymore.
She walked deeper into the apartment, her eyes scanning everything—the sewing table, the mannequins, the half-finished gowns. Fabrics everywhere.
Her nose wrinkled as though creativity itself offended her.
Emma and Clara sat quietly on the couch, their hands folded, listening. They recognized her voice, even after all these years—the woman who used to appear in nightmares.
Lauren’s gaze landed on two gowns the girls had finally finished at dawn: one lavender, one deep emerald.
She stared at them longer than anything else.
I let her look.
Finally, she turned back to us, smirking.
“I came back for my daughters.”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“I have something for them,” she said, pulling out two pristine garment bags—designer gowns, dripping with glitter and brand names—and a thick stack of cash.
