And for one terrifying second, I saw the nineteen-year-old boy I loved behind the face of the forty-year-old billionaire sitting across from me.
Same grey eyes.
Same small scar above the eyebrow.
Same habit of clenching his jaw when he was confused.
I whispered a name I hadn’t spoken in twenty years.
– Alex?
Her face changed.
Full.
The cold billionaire is gone.
Her lips parted.
No one spoke.
Then he whispered:
“Who told you that name?”
I started crying.
And that was all the confirmation I needed.
Twenty years earlier, I had been nineteen.
Alexander turned twenty.
We were young, broken, reckless, and completely convinced that love could solve everything.
