She looked different. Polished. Harder. Her hair was styled into a perfect, sleek cascade. She wore a designer dress that clung to her frame, artfully highlighting the slight, undeniable swell of her belly.
She was in full costume, playing the part of the wronged future Mrs. Roman, the mother of his heir.
We both froze. The bustling lobby faded into a dull roar, the world narrowing to the twenty feet of polished floor that separated us.
And the ache in my chest... the one that had always been for her, the sister-wound, the place where our souls were supposed to be stitched together... ignited into a pure, clean, and terrifying hatred.
She took a step forward, her beautiful eyes welling with manufactured tears. The performance, the one I had fallen for a thousand times, was beginning. Her lips parted, ready to spin another beautiful, devastating lie.
I took a step back. The distance between us felt like the only safe space left on earth.
