Amara’s POV

The air felt electric as I sat across from Mr. Tower in the pristine conference room of Daven Technologies. The morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft glow on the sleek chrome furniture. My heart pounded in anticipation. After weeks of effort, sleepless nights, and countless trips to this company, this moment was everything.

“Your presentation has caught me,” Mr. Tower said, his voice steady but warm.

I blinked, unsure if I had heard him correctly. The edges of his mouth curled into a faint smile as he reached into his briefcase and retrieved a document file.

“You can pass the contract to Damon McCain,” he said, sliding the papers across the table. “I hope his company and mine get to do great things together.”

A gasp escaped my lips before I could catch it. My fingers trembled slightly as I reached for the file, the cool texture of the folder grounding me. This was it. The reward for all my hard work. I rose to my feet, holding the file close to my chest as though it were the most precious thing in the world.

“Thank you, Mr. Tower,” I said, my voice steady but filled with gratitude. “I promise you won’t regret this decision.”

He gave me a nod of approval, and I turned to leave, my heels clicking against the marble floor. Outside the building, the crisp air hit my face, but it felt refreshing, like a new beginning.

I flagged down a taxi, clutching the file as though it might disappear. “To McCain Enterprises,” I instructed the driver.

The ride was a blur of anticipation. Damon had mentioned how elusive this contract had been, how his company had tried and failed multiple times. Now, here it was, secured and ready to be delivered—on our seventh anniversary, no less. My chest swelled with pride at the thought of his reaction.

“You did it, Amara,” I whispered to myself as the taxi pulled up to McCain Enterprises.

Inside the lavish lobby, I approached the desk, my smile wide. “Hello. I’m here to see my fiancé,” I said, my tone light and cheerful.

The secretary barely looked up, her gaze sharp as she scanned me from head to toe. “Who are you?”

I stiffened, narrowing my eyes. “I’m your boss’s fiancée. Is Damon in?”

She tilted her head, a mocking smirk playing on her lips. “You look nothing like his fiancée,” she muttered under her breath, loud enough for me to hear.

“What the heck?” I arched a brow, my tone icy.

She sighed, waving me off dismissively. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you, and I don’t think you’re in any way related to my boss. You also don’t seem to have an appointment, so kindly leave.”

Heat flared in my chest. “Call him,” I demanded, my voice sharper now.

“I can’t do that,” she replied flatly, refusing to even glance my way.

My patience snapped. I slammed my palm against the desk, the sound echoing through the lobby. “You will call him now, or I’ll make sure he knows how incompetent you are!”

“Amara?”

The voice made me freeze. Slowly, I turned to see Tasha, Damon’s sister, standing a few feet away. She regarded me with thinly veiled disdain as she strutted forward, her heels clicking with deliberate arrogance.

“Hello, Amara,” she said, her tone syrupy with mockery. “What are you doing here?”

“To see Damon,” I replied joyfully, meeting her gaze.

“Right. And ruin his perfectly good day?” she huffed, folding her arms.

The secretary chimed in, her voice cold. “Ms., please leave and don’t cause a scene, or I’ll call security.”

“Watch it,” I hissed, glaring at her. “I’ll have my fiancé fire you for this disrespect.”

Tasha snorted, brushing past me to address the secretary. “Don’t bother, Lola. Just let her go see him. She’s an unwanted guest anyway.”

Her words stung like a slap, but I masked the hurt with a glare. My fists clenched at my sides as I watched her turn and saunter away. If she weren’t going to be my future sister-in-law, I’d have yanked her perfectly styled hair right then.

Regaining my composure, I gave the secretary one last icy look and strode to the elevator. As the doors opened and I stepped onto Damon’s floor, I forced a smile, pushing aside the bitterness. This was a big moment, and I wouldn’t let anyone ruin it.

The elevator doors slid open, and my breath caught in my throat. Damon stood in the center of his office, his broad shoulders tense but relaxed enough to lean toward someone sitting in his chair. My heart stuttered when I saw who it was—Miranda. Her face, all too familiar, broke into laughter as Damon rested his hand on the back of her chair. Their closeness was undeniable, intimate in a way that sent sharp pangs through my chest.

The contract in my hand felt heavier, my grip on it tightening as my palms grew clammy.

“Damon?” My voice cracked, barely rising above a whisper.

He turned sharply, his easy smile faltering the moment his eyes—strikingly cerulean and sharp—met mine.

“Amara?” His voice carried a hint of surprise, but it was restrained, too measured. He took a step forward, hesitating at first, and then closed the space between us. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

I swallowed hard, glancing at Miranda, who lounged back in the chair as though she owned it. “Right,” I said, my voice laced with bitterness. “How could you?”

Damon frowned. “Meaning?”

I gestured slightly toward Miranda. She stood, brushing nonexistent dust from her pencil skirt, and offered me a smile so sweet it turned my stomach. “Hi, Ama.”

“It’s Amara,” I said curtly, my fingers tightening around the edges of the file.

Damon’s brows pinched. “Hey, don’t be like that,” he said lightly, a subtle reprimand that made my blood simmer.

I turned back to him, my heart pounding. “Why doesn’t your staff know who I am? Why has no one in your office ever heard of me?” My voice rose despite my best efforts to stay composed. “I’m your fiancée, Damon. Why haven’t you told them about me?”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “Come on, Amara. It wasn’t necessary.”

“Not necessary?” My voice trembled as I glanced at Miranda, who smirked faintly. “Even your secretary was disrespectful. She wouldn’t let me see you.”

Damon shrugged. “She doesn’t know you.”

“Exactly my point!” I snapped. “She should know me. I’m not some random stranger.”

Miranda chuckled softly, drawing my attention back to her. “Oh, come on, Amara. It’s not a big deal. I know you—doesn’t that count for something?”

My eyes narrowed. “Of course, you do. You’re Damon’s so-called best friend, after all.”

Her expression turned wounded, a deliberate pull of her lips and widening of her eyes that screamed theatrics. Damon turned to me, his tone sharp. “Amara, that’s enough. You don’t have to be rude.”

“She’s—” I started, but Miranda cut me off, her voice feigning remorse.

“I shouldn’t have intervened. I’m sorry, Amara. Truly. I’ll head to my office now.” She picked up a file from the desk, her movements slow and deliberate as she turned back to Damon. “See you later, Damon.”

Before she could leave, her heel caught on the carpet, and she yelped, crumpling to the floor. Damon rushed to her side, concern flooding his face as he knelt beside her.

“Miranda, are you okay?” His voice was soft, tender.

She winced, gripping his arm dramatically. “No, I think I sprained my ankle.”

Damon gently removed her shoe, inspecting her foot as she clung to him. She whimpered, casting a quick, triumphant glance in my direction. My stomach churned as I stood frozen, invisible in the room where I should’ve been the most significant person.

“I’ll help you to your office,” Damon said, slipping an arm around her waist as he helped her stand.

“Damon,” I called softly, stepping forward, holding up the contract. “I’ve got—”

“Let’s talk later at home, Amara,” he said without looking at me. Then, with Miranda leaning heavily on him, he walked away, leaving me standing there alone.

For an hour, I waited. I paced his office, the contract burning in my hands, the seconds ticking by like thunderclaps in my ears. He didn’t return. My chest ached as I set the file on his desk, the culmination of weeks of effort discarded like an afterthought. Again, he had chosen her. Again, I was left behind.

The ride home was a blur of tears and muted pain. The living room greeted me with silence, its vast emptiness amplifying the ache in my chest. I called Damon’s number, but it went unanswered.

“It’s our anniversary,” I whispered to the void. Seven years together, and this was how it felt—like nothing.

I slumped onto the couch, exhaustion pulling me under. My eyes landed on the small box I’d left on the table earlier that morning. Tentatively, I reached for it, unwrapping it slowly. Inside lay the sweater I’d spent the last three nights sewing, my hands raw from pricks and burns. I lifted it, tracing the careful stitching with my fingers, my scarred hand trembling. Damon had barely glanced at it this morning, his focus on his phone, his lips curling into a smile at something Miranda had said on the other end.

I closed my eyes, memories of our fifth anniversary flooding back. He had planned a candlelit dinner on the rooftop, complete with fairy lights and music. We had danced under the stars, his arms wrapped around me as he whispered promises of forever. But tonight, those promises felt like distant echoes.

The clock ticked on, dragging me toward despair, until my phone buzzed. I grabbed it quickly, hope flaring. It was a message from Damon.

{Hello, babe. Happy anniversary. Let’s celebrate it at Le Château Étoilé. I’ve booked the restaurant for the whole night for us.}

A small, hesitant smile crept onto my face. Le Château Étoilé was one of California’s finest restaurants, a place I’d begged Damon to take me for weeks. Maybe he hadn’t forgotten after all. Maybe this was his way of making things right.

I hurried upstairs, my heart lighter. There was no need for extravagant makeup or dresses—Damon loved me best in my simplicity. By the time I arrived at the restaurant, the grand exterior gleamed under the moonlight. It was everything I’d imagined—luxurious, elegant, and perfect.

I approached the entrance, excitement bubbling in my chest. Two welcoming staff members stood by the door, their polished smiles faltering as they saw me.

“Good evening,” I said, my voice warm. “I have a reservation. My fiancé, Damon McCain, booked the entire night.”

Their eyes met, amusement flickering before one stifled a laugh. “You? Damon McCain’s fiancée?”

I straightened. “Yes.”

The other scoffed, shaking her head. “It’s not every day women roll off the street claiming to be Mr. McCain’s fiancée.”

“Excuse me?” My voice sharpened, anger bubbling beneath the surface.

The blonde staff member smirked. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But no, you’re not on the list.”

“Check again,” I demanded, my patience fraying.

She disappeared, returning with an older woman who introduced herself as the restaurant's Manager.

“I think there’s been a mistake,” I explained. “Damon McCain made a reservation here for tonight—for our anniversary.”

The manager’s expression hardened. “We’ve checked thoroughly. Mr. McCain hasn’t made any reservations.”

“You’re lying,” I said, desperation creeping into my tone. “It’s our anniversary. He told me—”

The blonde interrupted with a sneer. “It’s either you’re trying to scam your way into this establishment, or you’re delusional. Either way, leave now, or we’ll call security.”

My world tilted, their words ringing louder than they should. This couldn’t be happening. Not tonight. Not Damon.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My thoughts tangled and unraveled like threads pulled too tightly. Why was things turning out like this ? Was he pulling some cruel prank? No, that wasn’t like him—or at least, it hadn’t been. But then again, so much about him had changed lately.

The cold bit into my skin as I stepped out of the restaurant’s warm glow and into the frosty night. I stopped by the security post, the dim light overhead casting a harsh glare. My fingers trembled as I dialed Damon’s number. The line rang, over and over, until I heard his voice.

“Oh, Amara,” he said, his tone light, distracted. “What’s up?”

“Damon.” My voice cracked despite my effort to sound composed. “Where are you? I’m at the restaurant. I wasn’t let in because…” I hesitated, shame tightening around me like a noose. “Because they said you didn’t make a reservation.”

“Ah, damn.” He let out a soft laugh, like I’d reminded him of something insignificant. “I forgot to make it.”

“What?” My chest constricted, disbelief mingling with hurt. “But you messaged me. You told me to come here. You should be here.”

“I know, I know,” he said, as if pacifying a child. “I’ll make it up to you. I’m at a meeting. I’ll be there soon.”

Before I could respond, a soft, feminine voice echoed faintly through the phone. “Damon, do you like crabs or grilled salmon better?”

It was Miranda.

My heart sank. He didn’t even bother to hide it anymore. There was a shuffle, as though he had cupped the phone, but her voice had already done its damage.

“Damon.” My throat felt dry. “You’re with Miranda?”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay?” His words were hurried, dismissive. Then the line went dead.

I stared at my phone, disbelief freezing me in place. Damon had just lied to me—for the first time, at least outright—and it was for her. A jagged pain tore through my chest, but I held onto that fragile sliver of hope. Maybe he’d show up, make it right. He had to.

Ten minutes turned into twenty, then an hour. My hands, bare and exposed, trembled from the biting cold. I cursed myself for leaving the house without gloves. Snow began to fall, light flakes landing on my hair and lashes. My breath came out in puffs of frost as I stood there, stiff and unmoving.

The staff at the entrance stole glances at me, their expressions filled with disdain and poorly concealed amusement. They muttered amongst themselves, and though I couldn’t hear their words, their derision was obvious.

I checked my phone again. No messages, no calls. Could he be stuck in traffic? Was something holding him up? But if that were the case, why hadn’t he called or texted to let me know?

Time crawled, each minute dragging my hope further into the ground. People streamed out of the restaurant, some glancing at me curiously as I stood, a frozen statue under the falling snow. My eyes stung with unshed tears, but I refused to let them fall.

At 10 p.m., the restaurant began to close. The staff started clearing the entrance, their mocking gazes landing on me as they stepped outside.

“You claim to know him. How pathetic,” one of them sneered, her voice sharp enough to cut through the night air.

The blonde among them smirked, holding up her phone. “He’s actually having a good time with his woman right now. And here’s this poor imposter.”

Their laughter was muffled as they walked away, but their words echoed in my mind, each one a stab to my chest.

His woman?

What were they talking about?

My legs felt like lead, rooted to the icy ground as snow soaked through my shoes and numbed my toes. The cold wasn’t just on my skin; it burrowed into my bones, wrapping me in a chill that went far beyond the weather. My breath rose in wisps of frost, the night closing in around me. Then, a faint chime broke the silence. I pulled my phone from my pocket, the harsh light of the screen momentarily blinding me.

It was a notification from Instagram.

My fingers, trembling from the cold and something far deeper, swiped across the screen. The wind howled around me, but I barely noticed. My breath hitched as Miranda’s profile popped up, her latest reel sitting proudly at the top of my feed. My thumb hesitated, hovering over the video. I didn’t want to watch it, but some masochistic part of me pressed play.

The reel began with an awe-inspiring view of the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway, the tram gliding smoothly up the mountainside. Miranda’s voice filled the air, cheerful and high-pitched. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m doing this! It’s so scary, but so exciting!”

The camera panned, and there he was—Damon. His familiar, striking features etched with ease and laughter, his arm draped protectively over Miranda’s shoulder. My heart plummeted. He chuckled as she clung to him, whispering something close to her ear. She laughed, leaning into him as the tram rotated, the two of them framed by a picturesque sunset.

I gripped my phone tighter, my knuckles whitening. This wasn’t just a reel. This was my nightmare laid bare for everyone to see.

The reel transitioned to the observation deck at the Mountain Station, a golden sunset painting the horizon behind them. Miranda’s voice trembled with awe. “The view is incredible! I’ve never seen anything like it!” Damon was by her side, pointing out landmarks in the distance. His hand, so familiar, steadied her waist as she leaned forward, her smile bright and carefree.

This was the trip I’d begged Damon to take me on for years. He always had an excuse: work was too hectic, or the timing wasn’t right. I’d held onto hope, thinking one day he’d follow through. But here he was, giving her my dream. My stomach churned with a mixture of disbelief and heartbreak.

As the reel ended, Miranda’s caption caught my eye, its words searing into my brain:

"Thought I’d never experience true happiness, but my true love proved me wrong. I’m in the moon."

The ache in my chest spread, sharp and unforgiving. My frozen fingers hovered over the screen before I dropped my hand to my side. My phone dangled limply, as though it carried the weight of my crumbling world.