Chapter 5

Neither of us expected that the twenty-seven-year-old Sophia would truly appear on the beach.

She came, but not to keep our promise.

"James, you actually followed me here? Are you spying on me? You're pathetic!"

The beach we once chose for my proposal was now covered in roses, with fireworks arranged behind them in a dazzling display.

And at the center of the blossoms stood the twenty-seven-year-old Sophia—beside Alexander.

He had beaten me here.

The roses I'd ordered were still being loaded from the delivery van at the edge of the road.

Alexander must have known. He'd intercepted my plans—the venue, the date, everything—and staged his own scene on the exact beach where I was supposed to propose.

The nineteen-year-old Sophia clutched my sleeve, trembling.

"James… those are your roses. Those are your fireworks."

"I know."

Alexander turned to face me, his expression perfectly crafted—equal parts sympathy and triumph.

"James, I'm sorry. Sophia asked me to set this up for her. She said she wanted a romantic evening."

"That's a lie," I said quietly.

Sophia crossed her arms. "Excuse me? Alexander went out of his way to do this for me. What have you done lately besides sulk and spy?"

I looked at her.

The woman standing amid stolen roses, wearing stolen affection, convinced it was real.

Then I looked at the nineteen-year-old beside me, her face streaked with tears.

"James," young Sophia whispered, "use the third chance. Please."

"Not yet."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

Sophia froze.

Alexander's smug expression flickered.

I opened it. Inside was the ring I'd designed years ago—a simple band with a tiny diamond, modest by any standard. On the inside was engraved: To Sophia, who made the subway rides worth it.

"This was supposed to be for you," I said. "Six years I carried this promise. Six years I waited for this day."

I placed the box on the sand between us.

"I'm not proposing anymore. But I wanted you to know—I kept my word."

The ocean wind carried the silence between us.

Alexander reached for Sophia's arm. "Let's go, babe. He's just being dramatic."

But Sophia didn't move.

She was staring at the ring. At the inscription.

Something ancient stirred behind her eyes—something Alexander's manipulation had buried but not killed.

"James…" Her voice cracked. A different crack than the angry ones. This one sounded like foundation giving way.

"That's the third chance," I said softly, looking at the young Sophia.

The girl nodded, tears falling freely. "Thank you, James. For keeping your promise."

I picked up the ring box, closed it, and walked away from the beach.

Behind me, I heard Sophia's voice—the twenty-seven-year-old's—calling my name.

I didn't turn around.