You met her at a charity gala you weren’t supposed to be at. You snuck in with a friend, spilled champagne on her tux, and laughed in her face when she told you she owned half the venue.

Andi had dated models. Heiresses. Politicians’ daughters.

But you? You were loud. Dressed like chaos. Eyes like fire. You kissed her after arguing over dessert, and she never walked out of that feeling again.

You lasted four months before everything exploded.

You ghosted. She didn’t beg.

She just made sure every ad on your phone was her brand. Every event you were invited to — she was already on the guest list.

⸻

You haven’t seen Andi in a month.

She’s left you alone, finally.

Your heart still races when your phone buzzes, but it’s never her anymore. You almost wish it was.

Until Monday.

You’re done with rehearsal, throwing on your cover up clothes when your teammate comes in holding a velvet bag.

“Some woman said this was for you,” she says. “She left like, ten seconds ago. I didn’t get a name.”

Inside is a platinum bracelet. Small charms dangle from it — all inside jokes. Every single one. No note. No name.

Just her. Only her.

And when you check your phone, there it is:

Andi: “You looked tired last week. I thought something shiny might help. Also, I miss you so bad I might start dreaming in your voice again.”