8. Gen
Chapter 8
Gen
I ’ve been home for three days and haven’t unpacked a single thing.
I haven’t done much in the way of work either. I haven’t opened my inbox. I haven’t checked Luxuria’s social tags.
Instead, I’ve reorganized the linen closet twice. Cleaned the grout in my bathroom tile. Organized my kitchen spices alphabetically. Rearranged the bookshelf by color, then by genre, then by author last name.
I even tried to go for a run, but I ended up crying on a park bench. Evie found me there. She dragged me home, shoved Thai food into my hands, and said she wasn’t leaving until I gave her permission to insult Sebastian Wolfe with the full force of her vocabulary.
None of it has helped.
Because no matter what I do, there’s still an aching, hollow pit in my chest where something else used to be. Hope, maybe. Or trust. Or whatever delusional thing I thought was growing between me and Sebastian Wolfe before he left me on his island with a note.
A note.
Not a call. Not a conversation. Not even a decent lie to soften the landing.
Just a folded piece of paper in Dom’s hand. A professional pat on the head that boiled down to thanks for the orgasms and your excellent logistical skills—best of luck with your future endeavors.
I don’t know what I expected.
Not a relationship. Not hearts and flowers. But maybe a goodbye that wasn’t typed in twelve-point font and signed like a contract.
The humiliation comes in waves. One minute I’m fine—totally normal, totally functional, just a girl with a successful growing company and a minor penchant for overachieving. The next, I’m replaying every second of that last morning, every whispered word, every kiss, every possessive grip of his hands on my body and wondering how I misread it all so badly.
I lost my virginity to a man who touched me like he couldn’t get enough—and then walked away like I was nothing.
I've been forcing myself to push my limits, try new things. Now that I'm free of my parents' oppressive control, I can figure out what I want, what I like, who I am.
Sebastian was just one of those big steps. I want to regret it. But part of me is happy I followed what I wanted for once. Even if it ended in total heartbreak.
Evie barges in just before noon on day three, carrying iced coffee, pastries, and encouragement.
She takes one look at me—oversized hoodie, hair in a limp bun, mismatched socks—and lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a gasp.
“Oh no. Absolutely not. We’re not doing this.”
I blink at her from my bed, where I’ve become one with the pillows. “Doing what?”
“This. The sad Victorian heroine routine. You’ve been floating around this apartment like a haunted soul, and I swear to God, if I find one more untouched latte cup on a windowsill, I’m calling a therapist.”
“I haven’t been that dramatic.”
“You sighed at the sink for seven full seconds yesterday, Gen. I counted. You were staring into a coffee mug like it held the answers to the universe.”
I sink lower into the blankets. “I’m processing.”
“You’re spiraling.”
She hands me the coffee and drops the pastry bag onto my lap as an offering to the emotionally unwell. I contemplate just lying there, but I know she’ll come in and drag me out by the ankle if I don’t emerge from my cavern of regrets.
“I’m just saying,” she calls from the kitchen, “a man with that much power and that much bone structure shouldn’t be allowed to leave a breakup note. It should be criminal. Or at least publicly shamed on social media.”
“It wasn’t a breakup,” I mumble from where I've curled up on the couch. “We weren’t together.”
“Oh, my bad. You just gave him your virginity, moaned his name against every available surface, let him tie you up, and had a week-long eye-sex marathon. Totally casual.”
I groan and press the heel of my palm to my forehead. “Please stop talking.”
“Nope. Not until you give me the green light to hate bomb him. I’ve got at least four burner accounts ready.”
“You’re aiming for a restraining order.”
“I’m aiming for revenge. At least let me hex him.” Evie reappears in the living room and flops onto the couch beside me. “I’m serious. I googled it. You just need hair and a bay leaf.”
“I’m not giving you his hair.”
“So you have some?”
I lift my head from the pillow long enough to shoot her a look. She raises both eyebrows, utterly unbothered.
“Fine,” she says, settling onto the couch beside me. “Then I’ll just use words. Words that cut. You know what his problem is? He’s emotionally constipated. Bet he hasn’t had a real feeling since 2012. Bet he treats therapy like a hostile business takeover.”
“Evie.”
“I’m just saying. Men that repressed have bigger commitment issues.”
“You haven’t even met him.”
She leans in, expression sharp. “I don’t need to meet him to know he’s the kind of man who thinks intimacy is giving you a second orgasm.”
My face goes hot. “That is not what happened.”
“Please...”
I groan and pull the throw blanket over my head.
She tugs it back down. “Hey. Don’t do that. Don’t disappear into self-blame mode. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I don’t answer.
“Gen,” she says, quieter now. “Talk to me.”
I swallow hard. “It wasn’t just sex.”
She softens a little, shoulders slumping. “I know.”
“It wasn’t—he didn’t make me feel used. Not while it was happening. I thought…” I press my palms over my face. “God, I thought I meant something to him.”
“You probably did.”
“Then why did he leave?”
Evie exhales slowly. “Because he’s a coward. Because something about you scared the shit out of him and instead of facing it, he bolted.”
I shake my head. “I don’t scare men.”
“Babe, you do. You’re smart, capable, stunning, successful. You built a company from scratch while half the people in our lives were still figuring out how to microwave pasta. Of course you scare men. The good ones are into it. The weak ones? They run.”
Her certainty makes my throat burn.
I stare at the folded blanket on my lap, trying not to cry again. “I thought I was different. I’ve never…I just thought it was different. But I was obviously just a random fling.”
“You’re not,” she says. “He was the wrong one. That doesn’t make you wrong.”
The tears come anyway, silently trailing down my cheeks. Evie doesn’t push. She just sits beside me and lets me cry it out while she scrolls through her phone and mutters insults under her breath.
“Seriously,” she adds after a minute, “if you gave me even half a green light, I could have the internet hating him by dinner. He’d never be able to order coffee without someone spitting in it again.”
“You’re scary.”
“I’m loyal. There’s a difference.”
I laugh through my tears, and she smiles in that way she does when she knows she’s finally hit the right nerve.
I lean into her side with a sigh, every nerve ending feels raw and exposed. “I don’t want revenge. I want to stop feeling like an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot, Gen. You were vulnerable. You let yourself want something. That’s brave, not dumb.”
“He left a note, Evie. A fucking note …”
“And I’d like to leave a horse head in his bed. But we all have our coping mechanisms.”
“He said he enjoyed our time together.”
She tilts her head. “Did he also use the word synergy?”
“It read like a press release.”
“Then I hope he chokes on it.”
“I wanted to matter to him, Evie.” My voice cracks on it. “I didn’t expect forever. Just...enough to earn more than a note.”
She rests her head on top of mine. “You’re going to be okay. He doesn’t get to break you. You’re too damn good for that.”
I nod. Slowly. Because I have to believe that’s true. Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.
* * *
I sit in the car for a full five minutes before I even reach for the keys.
The house is exactly the same—white brick, black shutters, hedges trimmed with military precision. The lawn is freshly mowed, and I’m ninety percent sure the hydrangeas are arranged by bloom color. Even the damn birds sound well-behaved.
There’s no reason to be nervous. I’ve done this a hundred times. Smile, sit up straight, answer politely, defer when necessary. Let my father steer the conversation. Let my mother offer unsolicited skincare advice between thinly veiled criticisms of my career path. It’s routine.
But today it feels heavier. My skin feels tight. My dress—perfectly respectable, non-wrinkled, modestly hemmed—feels wrong. Too stiff. Too far from who I was two weeks ago. From who I wanted to be.
I glance at myself in the mirror and smooth my hair. Apply a little gloss. Not because I want to impress them. Because I don’t want to give them ammunition.
Then I get out and walk toward the front door like I’m heading into a job interview I already know I won’t get.
Simone opens the door before I even knock. She ushers me inside without fanfare and I’m led straight to the brunch room.
Yes, brunch room . Because in this house, even casual meals require a designated wing and full table setting.
My mother is already seated, posture immaculate, a delicate porcelain cup in one hand and the saucer in the other. She’s dressed for brunch the way most people dress for a corporate gala—cream blouse, pearl earrings, lipstick applied with surgical precision.
She doesn't look up.
“You’re late.”
“It’s 11:02.”
She sniffs, already turning toward the staff. “Punctuality is a virtue, darling. Coffee?”
“Please.”
Simone reappears with a fresh pot of coffee and a tray of crystal water glasses. My mother gestures impatiently for her to pour.
Across the table, my father glances up from his paper. His smile is brief, practiced.
“Genevieve.”
“Hi, Dad.”
He folds the paper and sets it aside, but doesn’t rise. Doesn’t offer a hug or even a handshake. Just studies me with the vague interest of someone skimming a quarterly report. My mother finally sets her tea down and motions to the empty seat across from her.
“Sit. We’ve already started.”
I sit.
The table is set for six, though only three places are in use. It’s an aesthetic choice, not optimism. My parents like the illusion of full rooms, of possibilities.
Simone reappears with a fresh platter of food I’m certain neither of my parents had a hand in preparing—roasted asparagus, a frittata, a tower of artisanal pastries too symmetrical to be accidental.
No one comments on the fact that I don’t reach for anything right away. Hunger left me somewhere over the Atlantic and hasn’t yet returned.
My mother studies me. “You look pale.”
“I flew in a few days ago. It was a long event.”
“Well, travel is exhausting when you don’t do it properly. You should look into one of those wellness IVs. Marina swears by them.”
I nod like I care.
My father clears his throat, folding his napkin with unnecessary precision. “I heard the Wolfe launch went well.”
“It did.”
“The photos were in the Chronicle. Very polished.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you help with the table settings? I thought the floral choices were a little aggressive, but the lighting was lovely,” my mother chimes in. “Who handled the lighting?”
“I did.” My jaw tightens. “I designed the entire event.”
That gets her attention. She lifts her eyes, blinks. “Oh. Well. That’s…ambitious.”
Ambitious. The word hits harder than it should. It’s the same tone she uses when someone wears fuchsia to a funeral or brings store-bought pie to a dinner party. Not quite disgusted. Just faintly disappointed.
“Big name like Wolfe. That’ll help your résumé,” my father says.
“It’s not a résumé, Dad. It’s a portfolio when it's for your company.”
He gives a noncommittal hum, slicing into the frittata. “Of course. But it’s still good experience. Maybe next time someone more established will bring you on full-time.”
I clench my hands under the table. “That’s not the goal.”
They both pause.
My mother blinks again, polite confusion clouding her expression. “I thought the whole point of all this was to land something permanent. You’ve been floating for years.”
I take a breath. “I’ve been building something. Luxuria is permanent. I have employees. A growing client base. National recognition.”
She smiles politely. “And yet you’re still renting that little apartment with Evie.”
“That little apartment keeps the lights on at a business that’s made six figures for the last two years.”
My father sets down his fork. “No need to get defensive.”
“I’m not.” I straighten my shoulders. “I’m just trying to correct your assumption that what I’m doing is a placeholder for something better. It is the something better.”
The silence stretches.
Then my mother lifts her teacup and sips delicately. “Well. You certainly sound passionate.”
She says it the way people say emotional. Or unstable.
I glance down at my plate, appetite completely gone. I wonder what would happen if I just stood up and left. Just walked out the way Sebastian did, clean and cold and without explanation.
But I don’t. I stay seated, cheeks burning, throat tight. Because walking away from them feels worse than being dismissed by a man I barely knew. Because this is the rejection that shaped everything.
I’ve spent my whole life trying to earn their approval. Not their love—they give that in the shallow, obligatory way of people who think good grades and clean fingernails are proof of character. But respect? Pride? That’s been the unreachable brass ring.
And I’m tired of reaching for it.
They finish brunch with soft questions about “eligible bachelors” and a reminder that open enrollment for grad school is coming up if I “decide to go the traditional route after all”. I nod where appropriate and say nothing when my mother offers to send me the contact info for her friend’s niece, who’s “doing very well in HR and could help you get a foot in the door somewhere stable”.
Stable. The word echoes.
When I finally leave, it’s with a headache and a stomach full of resentment. I close the car door with a little more force than necessary and sit there for a moment, fingers tight around the steering wheel.
They’ll never get it.
That used to devastate me. Now? It just exhausts me.
I flip open my phone, partly to avoid crying and partly to prove to myself that there’s a world outside this driveway.
Two new emails light up the screen.
Subject: Women in Sports Gala – Proposal Inquiry
From: Silas Whitmore
Subject: Westchester Project – Event Planning
From: Maximilian Thorne
I blink. Then reread them.
They’re short, professional. Complimentary. Both referrals from Sebastian.
My heart stutters.
I scroll down through each message, looking for some kind of personal note. There isn’t one. Just timelines, project scopes, and praise for the work I did on the Wolfe launch.
I should be flattered. Grateful, even.
Instead, all I feel is disoriented.
I sit there for a full minute, debating. Then I open a new message.
Gen: I appreciate the referrals. It means a lot to have your endorsement. Thank you again—for everything.
I can see the message marked as read after ninety seconds. But no response comes.
I’m not sure what stings more—the fact that he recommended me without saying a word, or that he clearly can’t even be bothered to respond to a simple message.
Fine. I open my calendar and accept both meetings.
If Sebastian Wolfe wants me gone, fine. But he’ll still have to watch me win.