Pinky Promise (En)

Chapter 2: 6 days before the big day

The morning sun filters gently into the château's dining room, bathing it in a soft, golden glow. The table is already overflowing with pastries, fresh fruit, and steaming coffee. I sit with Maria and Fleur, trying to shake off the tension lingering from yesterday. Louis stumbles in next, his hair a wild mess, and collapses into a chair.

"Why on earth are we up so early? This is supposed to be a vacation," he grumbles.

"It's ten in the morning, Louis," Maria replies, laughing.

"Exactly. Too early," he mutters, grabbing a croissant.

The moment feels light and easy, but then Claire walks in. She's glowing as usual, but my attention is instantly drawn to her outfit—a faded gray band t-shirt, loose and worn. It takes me less than a second to recognize it.

Harry's shirt.

My heart skips a beat, and I force myself to keep calm.

"Wow, Claire, rocking the casual look!" Fleur teases, smirking.

Claire flops into a chair, beaming. "Thanks! Isn't it the comfiest thing ever?"

I can't stop myself. "That's Harry's shirt, isn't it?"

She laughs, practically glowing with pride. "Good eye, Delilah! Yep, it's his. I borrowed it last night."

The laughter around the table falters, replaced by a brief silence. I work hard to keep my expression neutral. "You borrowed it?"

She shrugs nonchalantly. "Well, I mean, he kind of gave it to me. Okay, maybe not gave—he lent it to me. But honestly, since it looks so good on me, don't you think he should just let me keep it?"

Maria stifles a giggle, but Fleur nudges her, trying to keep things from escalating. I, however, can't tear my eyes from Claire, my mind racing.

"Why did you need to borrow a shirt from him?"

Claire grins like she's savoring the moment. "Oh, I didn't need to. It was just... after."

Her words hang in the air, and I tilt my head, forcing myself to look unbothered. "After what?"

She flashes an even bigger smile, leaning back in her chair. "After we spent the night together."

The air seems to leave the room for a second.

"Wait, what?" Fleur's voice is incredulous.

Maria lets out a surprised laugh. "No way."

Claire laughs along, like this is just a casual anecdote. "Yeah! I mean, come on—it's Harry. He's just so... ugh, you know what I mean? Perfect." She gestures dramatically with her hands, making her point impossible to miss.

I feel something tighten in my chest, but I force myself to stay composed. My gaze flickers to the shirt again. That shirt. Of all things, that shirt.

I remember the day Harry bought it vividly. We'd spent hours wandering through a vintage store in London, laughing and trying on ridiculous outfits. He'd spotted the t-shirt and declared it "the best thing ever," even though it was two sizes too big.

"This shirt," he'd said, emerging from the fitting room with a triumphant grin, "is my soulmate. Comfortable, cool, and perfect for lazy Sundays."

It became an inside joke between us. I'd always tease him about looking like a teenager who'd just rolled out of bed, and he'd fire back with, "And still more stylish than any teenager, thanks."

Now, seeing Claire wear it like some kind of trophy—it's too much.

And, because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, Harry chooses this exact moment to stroll into the dining room.

He's shirtless, his hair tousled and damp, wearing just a pair of athletic shorts. He looks like he's stepped out of some carefree morning routine, completely at ease.

"Morning, everyone," he says brightly, heading straight for the coffee pot.

He's oblivious to the tension in the room. Maria and Fleur exchange awkward glances, while Claire sits there, radiant, clearly enjoying the attention the shirt brings her.

Harry doesn't notice. He sits down next to Maria, cracking a joke about the coffee being too weak.

I can't do this. Not here.

I push my chair back and head out to the garden, the cool morning air biting against my skin. My chest is tight, my thoughts racing faster than I can control.

Sofia, why does this bother me so much? I'm marrying Niall in six days—the man I love, the man I chose. So why does seeing Claire in that shirt, hearing her casual confession about spending the night with Harry, cut so deep?

I close my eyes, willing myself to focus. My mind drifts back to the promise Harry and I made—a promise meant to protect us both.

But now, standing in the crisp morning air, I feel the weight of a realization I can't ignore.

I whisper to myself, so quietly it's barely audible: "And in the end, neither of us kept the promise."