Scarlett POV
I'm running on fumes and sheer spite by the time I drag myself home.
My stomach's been screaming for the last hour, so I ordered takeout from that seafood place I love. The one with the oysters that make you forget your own name.
By the time I get to my apartment, the delivery's already waiting at my door like a gift from the gods.
I spread everything out on my tiny kitchen table: a platter of ice-cold oysters, a little bottle of crisp white wine, the works. I pour myself a glass, kick my shoes off, and flip on the TV for background noise.
Some cheesy comedy I'm not really watching. I'm way too focused on the oyster in my hands; this one's being stubborn, shell clamped shut like it knows what's coming.
I'm wrestling with the shucking knife, trying to find the right an
