Given the way that her life has panned out until recently, Anabelle never had good reason to believe in much of anything, least of all romanticism. Like miracles, romance was the stuff of films and fairy tales, beautiful notions that were nice to entertain but which never seemed to present themselves in reality. Those eighteen years of proof to the contrary were what made it so easy, then, to be convinced of Elvis' betrayal. But inherently, she always wanted to believe the best in others, in the world itself, and having now been presented with incontrovertible proof has never been happier.

Still, it feels surreal to be lying here with Elvis, to see herself through his eyes and know that he must feel about her just as strongly as she does for him. When she woke up on that table, her life became a story the likes of which she never could have imagined, and it's almost as frightening as the alternative to know that she now has something to lose. Both arms snaking around Elvis once more, she pulls him in closer, tighter, with no intention of letting him go herself. "I'm glad we agree on that," she murmurs, biting her lower lip just as a small smile blossoms across.