My meager breakfast surged back up my throat. “I’m not heartbroken.”
It wasn’t like every breath resembled shards of glass piercing my lungs. I didn’t wake up every morning missing his warmth or reach for my phone to text him only to remember we weren’t talking. I didn’t see him everywhere I turned—in the pages of my books, the soft strains of a distant piano, or the reflection of a passing shop window. And I definitely didn’t lie awake, sleepless and restless, replaying every memory we shared like that was my life instead of the tattered reality around me.
I wasn’t heartbroken because I did this to myself. I didn’t have the right to be heartbroken.
But I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to hear Kai make his dry little quips one last time. Just so my final memory of him wasn’t the anguish on his face and the knowledge that I’d put it there.
It’s scientifically proven, my love.
A sob broke halfway in my chest. I turned my head away, eyes wet, until I regained control over my emotions. When I looked up again, my friends were watching me, their expressions soft yet knowing.
I’d skipped over the details of why I ended things with Kai. I simply told them we weren’t a good fit anymore and I needed time alone, which was true, but I could tell they didn’t believe me.
I didn’t blame them. I didn’t believe me either.
Fortunately, none of them called me out, and they acted like I didn’t almost have a breakdown at the table.
Sloane lifted one perfectly shaped brow. “Is that why you’ve been working like the hounds of hell are after you for the past week?” she asked, circling back to her concern over my recent habits.
“I have a good work ethic,” I said, grateful I didn’t have to talk about my feelings this early in the morning. “Is that a crime?”
“No, but you’re working yourself to exhaustion,” Vivian said gently. “It’s not healthy.”
That’s the point. If I was exhausted, I didn’t have energy to dwell on Kai or the shitshow that was my life. I didn’t have to spend my waking hours wondering where he was and how he was doing or my sleeping hours dreaming of his face, his voice, and his touch.
Exhausted was good. Exhausted was safe.
“I’m fine,” I said. “If I collapse in the middle of work, then you can berate me.”
“I don’t—”
“How was London?” I interrupted Vivian’s reply. She flew there with Dante for the Young Corporation’s CEO handover ceremony, which didn’t make it the best subject change, but I couldn’t help myself.
I’d read about Kai’s coup in the news. In one week, he’d taken down a top executive and reclaimed his spot as a CEO front-runner. Meanwhile, I’d burned rice, avoided my mom’s calls, and set a personal record for how many days I could wear the same sweat-pants in a row. I was proud of him, but it only underscored how incompatible we were.
“London was…interesting,” Vivian said. “I can safely say I’ve never attended a similar event before.”
“That’s good.” I bit back the rest of my questions.
How was Kai? Was he there with anyone? Did he mention me?
It was hypocritical of me to hope the last answer was yes. I was the one who ended things, but it didn’t change the fact that I missed him so much I couldn’t breathe.
Vivian looked like she was about to say something else. Fortunately, Sloane received a news alert about some big political scandal, and the conversation shifted to speculation over a well-known senator’s future.
Relief returned a portion of my appetite. I attempted to eat my croissant again and found it mildly more appetizing the second time around.
My friends meant well, but talking even indirectly about Kai enabled my addiction. The only way to break free was to quit cold turkey, though that was easier said than done. I still hadn’t been able to bring myself to turn off the news alerts for his name.
I’ll do it tonight.
I’d told myself that the past three nights, but I’d actually do it this time.
While Sloane ranted about the state of modern politics, I scrolled through my inbox for any urgent emails.
LAST DAY! BOGO 50% off our clearance collection Spring into the new season with these florals!
Re: Floria Designs website
I was about to click on the last email from Alessandra’s web designer when the subject line below it caught my eye.
Your book submission to the Atlantic Prose Agency My heart catapulted into my throat. I’d never queried any literary agency, but I couldn’t resist clicking into what was obviously a spam email.
Dear Isabella,
Thank you for your submission. I’ve read your sample chapters, and I love your voice. I have some notes in the attached feedback letter. Can you resend after you’ve revised?
-jill s
“What is it?” Alessandra asked.
My friends ended their conversation about the senator and stared at me with varying shades of curiosity.
“An email from someone claiming to be a literary agent.” My heartbeat crawled from my throat to my ears. I shouldn’t have drunk all that caffeine; I was one palpitation away from flatlining. “She said she read my sample chapters and liked them, which is bullshit, because I never queried an agent.”
The universe had the shittiest sense of humor. I was already spiraling about not finishing my book; it didn’t need to kick me while I was down.
“What’s the agent’s name?” Sloane asked. As a high-powered publicist, she knew everyone who was everyone in New York.
“Jill S? Stands for Sherman, according to her email address. I don’t…what? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Her eyes had sharpened the second I mentioned Jill’s name.
“Isabella,” she said slowly. “Jill Sherman is one of the biggest thriller agents working right now.
She reps Ruby Leigh.” A trace of rare excitement ran through her voice.
Shock knocked the breath from my lungs. Ruby Leigh was my favorite erotic thriller author and my introduction to the genre. I had an entire shelf dedicated to her books. I hadn’t researched agents yet because I wanted to finish my manuscript first, but querying Ruby’s agent had been at the top of my post-completion to-do list.
“But…I don’t…” How the hell did Ruby Leigh’s agent get my email? Was this simply someone pretending to be her? If so, I didn’t see the point; the email didn’t contain any phishing links or requests for payment.
The more I thought about it, the more real it seemed.
Croissant flakes and coffee churned next to a tiny, dangerous seed of hope.
“Let me see the email.” Sloane studied the message after I handed it to her. “This is her. Right email, right signature. She always signs off in all lowercase with her last initial, no period. It’s not something people outside the industry would know.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” My pulse thundered as the implication of what she was saying sank in.
Not a scam. “Unless she hacked into my computer, there’s no way she could’ve gotten a hold of those chapters.”
“Did you show your manuscript to anyone?” Alessandra asked.
“No, I…” My sentence trailed off, subsumed by an unbidden memory.