The Breakup Broker (Ever After)
Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Savvy
The trick to breaking hearts professionally is to convince yourself you never had one to begin with. And on most days, that was almost true.
This morning, for example, I tapped the fishbowl on my dresser with all the enthusiasm of a DMV employee. “Breakup number three hundred and forty-two, Commitment. Wish me luck.” My beta fish flared his fins, either oblivious to the irony of his name or fully in on the joke. His glassy stare offered more warmth than my first coffee of the day.
But today, there was a spark of something—something I wasn’t supposed to feel. Guilt? Regret? I shoved it down the way I always did. People didn’t hire me for my emotions. They hired me to finish what they couldn’t.
The business had grown entirely through whispered referrals in Manhattan’s elite circles—private clubs, charity galas, and corporate boardrooms. My clients found me through an intricate network of satisfied customers and their therapists, each passing along my private business number—unlisted, unadvertised, and shared only through whispers of trust. No website, no social media, no paper trail. Just the promise of a clean break delivered with professional precision.
The scent of coffee drifted up from River Bend Books as my mom started the day below. Light pooled across the train schedule taped to my mirror—a sharp, daily reminder: seventy-five minutes to New York, which meant just over an hour to heartbreak duty.
Commitment swam lazy loops in his bowl. Some days, I envied how simple it must be to live in a world that small. I’d tried explaining to my mother that I hadn’t named him as some deep metaphor about my love life, or aversion to one—but the pet store frowned on me naming him Sushi.
Still, whenever love or relationships came up, she’d given me that same sad look since I’d turned down my dream job at Windsor Weddings to become what she called a “professional relationship undertaker.”
My mom had been married to my dad for thirty-two years—the only thing she’d ever known was true love. To her, my career choice was like swapping a fairy-tale ending for a eulogy.
I tried not to think about what that said about me.
My phone buzzed. Today’s client number and the bare minimum details.
Client #342
Navy suit, grande dark roast. Meet at Rise and Grind Coffee at 9 a.m.
Simple enough. But simple didn’t mean easy. One wrong word and a breakup could spiral out of control—into legal battles, public meltdowns, or, worst of all, bad press. The breakup broker business didn’t have Yelp reviews, but my reputation relied on word of mouth. A single mistake could put me out of work faster than you could say “amicable split.”
The floorboards creaked their morning greeting as I crossed to my closet. My collection of breakup outfits hung in neat rows, organized by the type of heartbreak they delivered. Power suits for corporate types, business casual for startup bros, and one very specific blazer I saved for trust fund babies who thought their father’s money made them unbreakable.
“Going with the navy today,” I told Commitment, who showed his approval by continuing to swim in circles. “Nothing says ‘your girlfriend hired me to dump you’ like a sensible blazer and practical pumps.”
The bell downstairs chimed as the first customer entered the bookstore. My mom’s voice, warm as fresh coffee, greeted Mrs. Patterson, who always showed up before the official open time, undoubtedly wanting to know if her latest book order had arrived. The morning ritual of River Bend was as predictable as my own—unlike the city, where chaos was just a coffee order away from erupting.
My phone lit up with the group chat.
Ivy
EMERGENCY. The bride just fired her actual best friend. I need a backstory for being a camp counselor FIVE years ago. Help.
Maddy
Again? Last week, you were a college roommate. How many lives are you living?
Ivy
Seven. No, eight. I lost count after the twins’ wedding, where I had to be two different bridesmaids.
Me
At least you’re creating happy endings. My calendar says “soul crushing” at nine.
Maddy
We covered the whole love cycle, didn’t we? I plan the perfect proposal, and Ivy gets them down the aisle. Then Savvy...
Ivy
Handles the ones who don’t make it. The Three Fates of Manhattan Romance.
Me
I’m pretty sure this isn’t what we meant when planning our “perfect wedding empire” in college.
Maddy
Maybe not. But at least we’re still in it together. Different corners of the same business.
The familiar rhythm of our banter almost made me forget what I was about to do. Almost. But even after all those breakups, it hadn’t made this one any easier.
I grabbed my bag, checked my lipstick—neutral, professional, absolutely not the same shade I wore during my heartbreak—and headed for the side entrance. During store hours, I could cut through the back storage room and take the interior stairs down, but the exterior staircase was faster when the shop wasn’t open.
I slipped outside, avoiding the romance display I could see my mother arranging through the window. Three hundred and forty-one breakups later, I still couldn’t look at those promises of forever without flinching.
The scent of damp leaves and river water hung in the air, crisp with the first hints of autumn.
Mrs. Patterson had left and was now entering the post office, probably updating Frank about the latest town gossip. Old Mr. Dixon was unlocking The Weathered Barn, though why he bothered when nothing ever sold was one of River Bend’s greatest mysteries.
My phone buzzed again.
Maddy
Drone rehearsal moved to 2. Had to promise the parks department no water features this time.
Ivy
Still need that camp counselor backstory! How do you feel about archery?
Me
Heading to the train. Try not to create any more true love while I’m crushing someone’s dreams.
Maddy
That’s our Savvy. Bringing balance to the universe, one broken heart at a time.
The train station sat at the edge of town like a postcard from 1952. Complete with a copper-green roof and more gingerbread trim than a Christmas cookie, it served as both a transportation hub and an unofficial town museum. The walls were lined with black-and-white photos of River Bend’s brushes with fame—FDR’s whistle-stop campaign, that time Grace Kelly’s car broke down and Dad’s grandfather fixed it at the shop, and the summer they filmed Autumn in New York using Main Street as a backdrop. The town council still argued whether Richard Gere ate at Common Grounds or just stood outside.
“Morning, Savvy.” Tom, who’d been selling train tickets since before I was born, waved from his booth. “Another Wednesday, another broken heart?”
“Just doing my part to keep the therapists of New York employed.” I tapped my monthly pass against the reader. The Metropolitan Transit Authority might have gone digital, but Tom’s booth still had the original brass ticket window, polished daily by his proud hands.
The 7:15 whistle cut through the morning air, right on schedule. Joe, the conductor, had the door to my usual car open, and sure enough, there was my seat—the one that mysteriously remained empty every day I traveled, complete with a fresh box of tissues tucked into the magazine pocket. I’d tried asking Joe once how the seat remained unoccupied, but he just gave me that all-too-familiar smile and handed me a peppermint.
“One of these days,” Joe said as I settled in, “you’re going to get on this train looking like someone who hasn’t memorized every sad song Taylor Swift ever wrote.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve branched out to Adele.” I pulled out my phone, rechecking the morning’s client details. I never asked for names or contact information, just time, place, and basic identification markers. Today was simple.
The train rolled past River Bend’s greatest hits—the gazebo where Maddy still tested all her proposal ideas, the park where Ivy had coordinated her first wedding party photos, the bench where I … well, some landmarks were better left in the past.
New York was big. Too big for chance encounters. At least, that’s what I told myself. Still, after all these years, I was surprised I’d never run into Henry. Eight million people, yet the city could feel impossibly small when it wanted to. Maybe it was because he lived in a different world now—a world of gala dinners, designer suits, and family mergers. Meanwhile, I’d traded one kind of small town for another, choosing bookstores over boardrooms and freedom over expectations. I wasn’t sure if that made me brave or just lonely.
Through the window, I watched my small town transform into increasingly urban landscapes, like a flip book of everything I was leaving behind. River Bend, where everyone knew your name, your coffee order, and exactly which NYU boy had ghosted you into a career change. The city, where anonymity was just another luxury item, like oat milk or therapy.
My phone buzzed with updates from the morning’s disasters in progress.
Ivy
CRISIS. Bride’s real camp friend just posted a photo from the actual camp. I need a new backstory ASAP.
Maddy
Tell them you were at a sister camp across the lake.
Ivy
There was no lake.
Me
Say you were the kid of the archery instructor who worked in town. No one remembers the townies.
The train lurched toward Grand Central Station, the skyline rising like jagged promises on the horizon. I straightened my blazer and prepared to become Jennifer. Using another name was part of the job. A layer of separation. Jennifer Walsh handled the messy parts of love, so Savvy Honeysucker didn’t have to.
At least, that’s how it was supposed to work. The city was big enough that I should feel safe, invisible. But every so often, I wondered what would happen if someone—if he —recognized me. The thought tightened around my ribs like a trap. One wrong step, and everything I’d worked so hard to compartmentalize could come crashing down.