Sofia went straight to her room.
She peeled off her coat with slow, heavy movements and changed into her favorite cotton dress—the soft, faded one she always wore when she needed comfort. The fabric brushed against her skin like memory.
She moved on autopilot, brushing her hair back, not bothering with makeup or earrings. Her heart felt raw, scraped thin by the quiet ache she couldn't name.
She sank into the edge of her bed, listening to the rain tapping against the windowpanes like it had something to say. Outside, the world was gray and weeping. Inside, she felt hollow—even as she told herself she'd won.
But what had she won, really?
If Adam had come to speak of divorce, if he had come to say goodbye—what victory was there in that?
Maybe it would be Tristan who would come, bringing papers, saying things like "You knew this would happen," and "It's time to let go."
Maybe that was her fate.
To be remembered as a temporary wife. A beautiful mistake.
