Last Thursday morning started like any other. The girls were working on new designs, and I was making coffee when the doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting anyone. When I opened the door, Lauren stood there like a ghost I’d buried 18 years ago.
She looked different. Polished and expensive, like someone who’d spent years crafting an image. Her hair was styled perfectly. Her clothes probably cost more than our rent. She wore sunglasses even though it was overcast, and when she lowered them to look at me, her expression was pure disdain.
“Mark,” she said, her voice dripping with judgment.
I didn’t move or speak. Just stood there blocking the doorway. She pushed past me anyway, stepping into our apartment like she owned it. Her eyes swept over our modest living room, our sewing table covered in fabrics, and the life we’d built without her.
Her nose wrinkled like she’d smelled something rotten.
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