Even with my face caked in blood, barely recognizable, he knew it was me. After all these years—after everything—he still recognized me.
Shock flickered across his face, followed by something I hadn’t seen in so long: joy. Real, raw joy. He looked like he was about to run toward me.
“Lor—”
However, Malissa quickly grabbed his sleeve, her voice soft and full of quiet desperation.
“Milo…” There was something in her tone that made him stop cold. Like she was reminding him of something. Something bigger than me.
He froze. Whatever name he was about to say—whatever memory had surged forward—he swallowed it.
Just like that, the look in his eyes shifted. From elation… to guilt. Then confusion. Then fear.
Around us, the guests who had been cheering and offering toasts slowly turned to stare. Their smiles faded when they saw me—drenched in blood, barefoot, broken.
Someone muttered, loud enough for others to hear, “Who let a filthy, crazy woman in here? This is supposed to be a celebration—what a damn omen.”
Another whispered, louder, “Wait… she looks like Lorraine, right? The one Milo said died a year ago?”