Wish you were mine

54. The Blue file

PENELOPE

The morning light was merciless.
It sliced through the curtains like a blade, piercing straight into my skull. I groaned, pressing my palms against my temples as a dull ache pulsed behind my eyes - a cruel reminder of all the wine I'd downed last night. My mouth was dry, my head heavy, and my stomach churned in protest.

I turned my face away from the sunlight, seeking the cool comfort of the pillow, when a sharp glimmer caught my eye. The diamond on my ring finger shimmered in the golden light - a cruel, beautiful reminder.

Married.

To Sean Anderson.

The man I once swore I'd never even look at again, let alone share a last name with.

The irony wasn't lost on me. The universe had a wicked sense of humor.
I sighed, letting my hand fall back against the sheets. The scent of the linen was faintly masculine - clean, rich, with that subtle mix of cedar and smoke that was so unmistakably him. I froze. It was faint, but it was there.

That same scent had been haunting me for weeks now.

Sometimes, in the stillness of the night, when the world outside fell silent and the air grew heavy, I could feel it - a presence. Someone standing just beyond the edge of the shadows. Watching. Waiting. Breathing the same air as me.

Of course, it had to be my imagination. Who would come into my room in the middle of the night?

Certainly not Sean.

This marriage was just a business arrangement - a neat little contract to please the world, not the heart. We barely spoke beyond polite civility. There was no reason for him to cross that invisible line between us. And yet... my body told a different story. My skin prickled at the thought.

I shook my head, pushing the thought away like an unwelcome whisper. "Get a grip, Penelope," I muttered to myself.

With a soft groan, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, the cold marble floor kissing my bare feet. I stretched lazily, feeling the ache in my limbs from both the alcohol and the exhaustion of pretending all evening.

The faint morning breeze brushed through the open window, carrying the scent of rain and roses - and beneath it, again, that familiar trace of him.
No. I refused to believe it.

I grabbed a hair tie from the dresser, twisting my hair into a messy bun. My reflection in the mirror looked almost like a stranger - eyes tired, lips pale, yet that damned diamond still glimmered, mocking me from my finger.

I slipped out of the room, letting the door click softly shut behind me. The hallway was quiet, the kind of silence that hums. My bare feet barely made a sound as I started walking, trying to ignore the way my heart seemed to echo in that stillness - as if something, or someone, was listening.

And for a fleeting second, I swore I felt eyes on my back.

The living room felt enormous in the pale morning light, every surface softened by the hush of early hours. I slid onto the sofa as if into a small, familiar cave - one that contained neither warmth nor anyone who belonged to me. The cushions sighed beneath me and for a moment I let myself lean back and pretend the world could be quiet and simple.

A maid appeared like a dutiful shadow, bearing a steaming cup of black coffee. The aroma rose in a dark coil, bitter and honest, and when I brought it to my lips the first sip burned away the fog in my head. The headache loosened its grip; my senses returned to me in slow, deliberate increments. Life reassembled itself - small pieces, sound and color and the steady thump of my pulse - all coaxed back into sharpness by that black comfort.