Shattered Lines of Fate

Amara’s POV

There are certain days you feel like you’re stepping into a movie—like the world suddenly decides to revolve around your happiness, your plans, your storyline.

Today felt like that kind of day.

I walked into the mall with that stupid, soft smile I’d tried to fight off since I got out of the cab. I couldn’t help it. I had a plan, and not just any plan—a very grown-up, kind-of-scary, possibly life-changing one.

Tonight, I was finally going to sleep with my boyfriend.

Eight months. That’s how long Derek and I had been together. Eight months of handholding and late-night phone calls and “almosts.” Every time he reached for more, I’d stop him. It wasn’t because I didn’t want it—God, I did. But I always hesitated. Maybe it was insecurity, maybe fear. Or maybe it was the haunting feeling that once I gave myself to someone like that, something about me would change. Something irreversible.

But I loved him.

At least I think I do.

And more than that—I wanted tonight to feel like something special. I wanted to feel like I was choosing him, not because I felt pressure, or guilt, or like it was overdue, but because it felt right.

I’d just gotten back from Pennsylvania the day before, where I’d been visiting my Godparents. Correction: where I’d been suffocating in emotional blackmail masked as love. “We never see you anymore.” “You’re also our daughter.” “Don’t forget who loved you first.” You’d think I was married off to a foreign prince with how dramatically they clung to me.

But I missed them. I did. I just… missed my space more.

Scott didn’t know I was back yet. In fact, no one did. I wanted to surprise him. The look on his face when he saw me at his door? Worth it. So here I was, scouring the mall like a girl on a mission—because I was.

I needed the perfect dress. And the right underwear. Something bold. Confident. Something to shut up the part of me that still felt like the awkward virgin who bailed every time things got hot.

Thirty minutes in, I was already annoyed with the racks. Everything either looked like it belonged on a first date or at a funeral.

Then a voice interrupted my growing frustration.

“Miss… may I help you?”

I turned to see a store assistant, early twenties, cute bob, and that tight-lipped smile retail workers wear like armor.

“Yeah… actually, yes. I’m looking for something sexy—dress and lingerie.” I figured there was no point in pretending to browse casually.

Her brows arched slightly, then a mischievous grin crept up her face. “Ooooh. Someone’s got a big night planned.”

I laughed, suddenly feeling less shy about the whole thing. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Well then,” she motioned for me to follow, “you came to the right girl.”

She led me toward a corner section of the store, away from the family-friendly cardigans and pastel sundresses. Here, it smelled faintly of coconut perfume and expensive bad decisions.

“Are you looking for anything specific? Color? Style?”

“Honestly, just… whatever makes me look like I didn’t spend the last week in pajamas eating leftover pierogis,” I replied.

She laughed. “Got it. Hot girl transformation. Understood.”

She held up a white bodycon dress—long sleeves, dangerously short hem. I shook my head.

“White?” I wrinkled my nose. “Too bridal.”

She tossed it back on the rack, unfazed. “Fair. Okay, what about this one?”

A velvet red gown with a thigh-high slit. My brows furrowed.

“Too formal,” I said. “I’m not trying to seduce him at an opera.”