A warm sensation blossomed in Amy's chest at those words. Oliver had become unusually clingy lately, insisting on shadowing her every move.

The following morning, Amy attempted to call Alexander again, but the line remained silent. She sighed, scrolling through the unanswered messages on her phone.

"Alexander, when are we settling the divorce?"

"Alexander, you gave me your word. Are you backing out now?"

"Alexander, a man of honor keeps his promises. Are you?"

"Do you even want this divorce?"

Despite the flood of texts, Alexander's replies were sparse—single-word responses like "Yes," "Busy," or "Later." He often claimed he'd call back, but nine times out of ten, he never did.

Unreliable. No—not unreliable in general. Just unreliable when it came to her.

She had barely set her phone down when it buzzed again. Her lawyer.

"Ms. Sinclair, the court has officially accepted your divorce petition. They’ll notify Mr. Blackwood after the holiday break... You’re not reconsidering, are you?"

Amy exhaled sharply. "No. I’m not."

"Good. Keep me updated if anything changes."

Relief washed over her as she ended the call. Thank heavens for contingency plans—otherwise, Alexander would’ve strung her along indefinitely. Still, this path wouldn’t be easy.

Later, she took Oliver to the apothecary. The shop was unnervingly quiet, devoid of its usual bustle. Oliver blinked, scanning the empty space.

"Amy, are you sure this is the right place?"

She nodded. "Positive."

His brow furrowed. "But Mr. Whitmore said he was swamped and understaffed."

Amy frowned. Normally, even when she assisted, there’d be at least a handful of patients waiting. Today? Not a soul.

Theodore Whitmore emerged from the backroom, arms laden with dried herbs. "Ah, there you are," he said, depositing them onto the counter before eyeing Oliver. "This the boy you mentioned?"

Amy nodded.

Theodore’s lips quirked. "Handsome lad. More charm than your own son, I’d say."

The old herbalist had a blunt tongue but a kind heart, so Amy didn’t take offense.

"Oliver, greet Mr. Whitmore properly."

Ever the charmer, Oliver beamed. "Hello, Mr. Whitmore! Amy talks about you all the time—says you’re the kindest, wisest man she knows."

He offered a small paper bag. "We baked these for you. Mine aren’t as good as Amy’s, but I hope you like them."

Theodore chuckled, eyes crinkling. "Bright future ahead of you, boy." None of his own grandchildren were half as polite.

Despite his age, Theodore had a notorious sweet tooth—and exacting standards. It had taken Amy months to perfect a recipe he actually liked.

She tilted her head. "Mr. Whitmore, you said you were overwhelmed. Why’s it so empty today?"

He waved a dismissive hand. "They’ll come. Any minute now."

As if on cue, footsteps echoed outside. Then—a sharp, startled voice.

"Amy?! What are you doing here?"