That earned another small smile from him—amused, pitying. "But isn't she a burden to you? That's what you said, remember?"
His tone was mocking, but the words were hers—the same ones she'd spoken in that glowing diner six years ago.
Sasha's voice broke into a scream. "Amy might not have been born from love, but she's still my daughter! The one I carried, the one I raised, the one who made me feel human again!"
The world tilted.
Sasha blinked, and she was no longer in the guest room.
She was seated in the familiar diner—The M Table—its warm golden light flickering like before.
The same smell of sugar and smoke hung in the air. Only now, there were no waitresses, no laughter, no clinking glasses.
Just him.
Mephistopheles lounged on a velvet sofa before her, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of Spiritwine resting lazily in his hand. His eyes gleamed like molten metal.
He smiled when he saw her. "Ah, milady. I was wondering if you'd show up."
