My Fake Death Was The Punchline To His Cruel Joke Chapter 11
His shirt was wrinkled, but on his wrists, he wore the cufflinks I had given him years ago.
The ones I’d bought with half a month’s salary in our first year together.
In his other hand, he clutched the box of cards I’d mailed him, his knuckles white. The corners were frayed, as if he opened it and closed it every single day.
The automatic doors slid open.
The moment he saw me, his eyes widened. First with shock, then with a joy so fierce it was almost terrifying.
“Mara.”
His voice was a rough, broken whisper.
“Congratulations on the award.”
I said nothing.
He took a step forward, then stopped, as if afraid the vision before him might shatter.
“I saw the photo. I knew it was you. Leo wasn’t lying. You’re not dead…”
“There’s no Mara here,” I cut in, my voice cool.
“If you’re looking for the head of the studio, you can call me Elena Ortiz.”
The color drained from his face.
He fumbled with the box, opening it.
All one hundred cards were inside, stacked in their neat, damning order.
The edges of the first ninety-six were soft with wear.
“I kept them all.”
He pulled out the first card, his hands trembling.
“You wrote that I remembered you take your coffee black, that I remembered you hate thunderstorms, that I stayed with you all night on the anniversary of my mother’s death… I read them every day.”