It’s been three days since I asked for a pause, and his text—“Whatever you need, Twisha. I’m here”—sits unanswered on my phone. The rumors about his past have woven themselves into my thoughts, a shadow I can’t shake, and tonight, I’m facing a quiet reckoning with my heart.

Work has been a refuge, though a strained one. I’ve buried myself in manuscripts, the red ink a shield against my turmoil, but even the stories can’t distract me. Lena noticed my silence today, her concern etched in the lines of her forehead. “You okay?” she asked, and I nodded, forcing a smile. “Just tired,” I lied, but her knowing look told me she sensed more. I couldn’t confess the doubt gnawing at me—the fear that Edward’s charm might be a mask, that I’m just another name on a list of flings. My mother’s voice echoes, “Listen to your head, beta,” and I’ve been trying, but my heart keeps pulling me back to him.