Chapter One
What. The. Hell. Just. Happened?
One moment, I had a perfectly curated life—a steady relationship, a predictable routine, a future that was practically set in stone.
Now? It’s in shambles.
My chest is tight, my breath shaky as I press my forehead against the cool window of the cab, watching the blurred lights of London rush past. My reflection stares back at me—mascara-streaked cheeks, swollen eyes, the ghost of a girl who, an hour ago, thought she had it all.
I yank my long brown hair away from my face and swipe at the fresh wave of tears spilling down my cheeks. Then, with zero care for decorum, I dig a lacy handkerchief from my handbag and blow my nose as obnoxiously as possible.
The cab driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, one brow raised.
I don’t care.
I don’t care about anything right now.
Joseph—my boyfriend, my ex-boyfriend—dumped me.
On Valentine’s Day, of all days.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
We had dinner reservations. He ordered my favorite wine. There was candlelight. I thought—no, I was sure—he was going to propose. Instead, he blindsided me with a breakup speech straight out of Legally Blonde.
I thought I was everything to Joseph.
I thought we were building a future.
I thought he loved me.
Turns out, I was wrong.
So wrong.
Not only did he dump me after four years, but he barely showed an ounce of emotion while doing it. As if our entire relationship was just fun. That was his exact word, by the way, right before he packed my suitcases, shoved them into my arms, and pushed me out the door.
Like I was nothing.
A fresh river of tears rolls down my face, taking my heavily applied eyeliner with it.
The cab driver sighs. I catch another glance from him in the mirror.
In response, I blow my nose again—loud and unapologetic.
The drive to the Rutherford Regent Hotel drags on forever, each passing streetlight making the ache in my chest heavier.
When we finally arrive, I shove a few bills at the driver, climb out, and march to the trunk to grab my bags.
The Rutherford Regent.
One of Daddy’s hotels.
I know I’ll be able to get a suite without a problem. It’s one of the few perks of being Rutherford Norman’s daughter.
I drag my suitcase behind me, two designer bags slung over my shoulders. My trusty Converse slaps against the pavement as I step toward the grand entrance.
I should feel relief. I should feel grateful that, at the very least, I have somewhere to go.
But all I feel is loss.
Deep-seated loss.
I’ve lost Joseph.
I’ve lost my home.
I’ve lost my precious Yorkipoo, Princess Sophia.
And more than anything…
I’ve lost my dignity.
Gradually, with the weight of the world on my shoulders, I step up to the counter and watch as Mary-Ann tilts her head to the side while taking me in. “Oh, Dee, what’s wrong?”
I sniff, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand, then remember I’m supposed to be refined, well-bred, and a lady. “Joseph broke up with me!” I sniff a few more times before continuing, “Then he kicked me out. Can I have the penthouse tonight?”
Mary-Ann has worked at the Rutherford Regent for years.
Actually, for as long as I can remember.
Daddy used to bring me here when he had meetings, and Mary-Ann would let me sit behind the desk while she took care of me for the afternoon because Mummy would be off with her high society friends for lunch or book club.
“Oh, Dee, that’s terrible, honey. The penthouse is occupied, but the suite next to it is available. Will that be okay?”
I nod, and she smiles supportively as she hands me the keycard for the room.
“Thanks, Mary-Ann. Please don’t tell Daddy. I want to be alone for a while.”
“Okay, honey. But if you need anything, I’m here until four in the morning. Call reception, and I’ll come right up,” she says, with that look of sympathy that can only be described as feigned.
Where is the concierge? I think, but I have no energy to ask.
My care factor is now in the negative, so I take the keycard and drag myself, with heavy feet, toward the elevator.
Once I reach the floor, I walk toward my room.
The noise from the penthouse is obnoxiously loud, and I sigh out a long breath when I let myself into the room, which is beautiful and modern with an air of sophistication.
The floor-to-ceiling windows show the vista of a lit-up city, so I leave the curtains open, pull my luggage over the plush carpet, and place it at the end of a massive king-sized bed.
Loud music is blaring from the penthouse suite, and the walls do nothing to drown it out.
I shake my head, letting out an obnoxious huff.
After changing into my cute Peter Alexander pink and white-striped pajamas, I lie down and bring my knees up to my chest on the large bed, all alone with a raging headache that won’t subside.
And that’s when reality hits…
I cry myself into oblivion, only stopping long enough to call Boozeline so they can deliver some much-needed vodka. Usually, I’m an expensive wine girl, but this kind of heartache calls for the hard stuff.
Turning on the flat screen, I tune in to watch a few gloomy movies. When you watch a heartwrenching movie, devour a tub of ice cream from room service, and drink the vodka you ordered, let’s just say it’s a messy night.
The night fades into the dark hours of the early morning, and eventually, the noise from the penthouse subsides.
By this time, a whole tub of Ben and Jerry’s and three-quarters of a bottle of vodka have been consumed, and I’m in no fit state for anything.
The credits roll at the end of Beaches, the movie starring Bette Midler, and another wave of gut-wrenching, almost heaving hysteria takes over my body.
Daddy is going to be so disappointed.
And how can I blame him? I’m obviously not good enough to be on Joseph’s arm.
I feel so empty.
How could Joseph do this to me?
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
My heart skyrockets in my chest, causing me to jump when someone hits the wall between the penthouse and my suite.
“Shut up in there! We’re trying to sleep!”
I stop crying for a nanosecond, and I’m off again. My heart’s shattering into tiny splinters, and not one person seems to care.
My entire world has changed.
My routine.
The life I was living.
All gone.
I sob so loudly that I’m sure Mary-Ann in reception can hear me.
Taking another guzzle from the vodka bottle, I blow my nose repulsively into a tissue.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
The banging causes me to jump again, but this time it’s on my door.
Somehow, I manage to stumble to my feet and take the bottle of vodka with me, trying incredibly hard not to spill the precious beverage.
I’m still sobbing when I open the door, and the vision before me makes my heart stutter and then thud.
I open and close my eyes a few times, trying to bring them into focus.
Whether it’s from the crying or the copious amounts of alcohol, I can’t see properly.
Standing before me is a god of a man, wearing black boxer briefs and a black tank top.
He’s ridiculously muscular, with full-sleeve tattoos covering those bulging arms. A light stubble covers his jawline, and his hair’s a disheveled mess of brown with blond highlights that, in my drunken state, I want to rush forward and run my hands through.
Then I see his eyes, and I’m sure I stumble slightly on the spot.
I’ve never seen such piercing, blue luminous eyes before, and I know I could get lost in them, even if only for a moment.
My crying subsides as this specimen before me looks at me with narrowed eyes while rubbing his chin.
“Hey, um… we have a huge gig tomorrow, and even though we are the kings of rock, we still need ‘some’ sleep,” he says, using his fingers to air quote.
This cross between Chris Hemsworth and Jared Leto of a man smirks while looking me up and down.
His actions cause me to start crying again, so I bring the bottle of vodka up to my lips and take another gulp.
The guy looking back at me is amazingly beautiful, but all he cares about is some gig. In contrast, I’m standing here in my pajamas with messy hair, a blotchy face, and an unfixable broken heart.
Who the heck is he anyway?
He watches as I take four large gulps of the scorching, fiery liquid that burns my throat all the way down. My face scrunches after every mouthful, and he smirks while I angrily swipe the tears away from my cheeks.
“C’mon, it can’t be that bad. Can it?” he asks.
Right, so he thinks my state of disarray is funny.
Who do you think you are?
“When your boyfriend of four years breaks up with you, kicks you out of your own home, and makes you leave your doggie best friend behind on Valentine’s Day?
Yes, it can actually be ‘that bad,’ ” I exclaim and use air quotes back to him.
As I turn around, I stumble but quickly right myself and walk back into the suite.
Flopping onto the couch, I sigh and take another gulp of the nearly empty bottle of vodka.
Once the door clicks shut, I lean back into the cushions, dizzy, and close my eyes.
Suddenly, I feel a weight shift beside me, and I fling open my eyes to the god sitting next to me with a look of concern etched on his face and his hand scratching at his chin.
Sighing again, I flop my head back to rest on the couch.
“He dumped you on Valentine’s Day? That’s pretty fucking low.” He takes the bottle of vodka from my hand without permission, and I look at him with my brows furrowed. I’m too caught up in my alcohol-induced haze to say anything as he puts the bottle to his lips and drinks the remainder.
Holy heck! This man is gorgeous!
I inadvertently lick my lips, thinking I could lick the remaining alcohol off his. Shaking my head, I try to refocus, and he chuckles, placing the empty bottle between us. Then, for no reason, I begin to cry again, and his eyes widen as if he’s paralyzed with fear.