Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Savvy
The message hit my phone at 7:42 a.m. as I walked to my usual spot on the train platform. The October morning air had that particular River Bend crispness that usually centered me before a job. Not today. My stomach lurched at the words on my screen.
Client #343
He’ll be early. He thinks we’re discussing weekend plans.
I read it three times, and each word landed like a punch. No elaborate setup? No careful fiction about investment opportunities or career mentoring? Just ... weekend plans? In my years of professional heartbreaking, I’d never gone in this naked.
This wasn’t just another job—this was sloppy. And sloppy meant risk. Risk to my reputation, control, and the walls I’d built between work and life.
The morning spun further out of control when Joe wasn’t at his usual spot by my car door. Instead, a harried-looking man I’d never seen before announced that Joe was out sick. My seat—the one that mysteriously stayed empty every morning—was occupied by a man in wireless headphones who took up more than his fair share of space.
The familiar seventy-five-minute ride stretched ahead of me without my usual tissue-box safety net. Perfect.
My phone vibrated again. A message from my client, #343:
Client #343
I’m tailing him now. He’s wearing a navy Armani suit and should sit at the corner booth.
I clutched my phone tighter, anxiety climbing with each mile marker. This wasn’t how I operated. I needed those precious pre-meeting moments to prepare to transform from River Bend Savvy to Jennifer, a professional heartbreaker.
I burst out of Grand Central at 9:17, the usual pre-game confidence that steadied me replaced by a gnawing dread that carried the sharp edge of guilt. Rise and Grind Coffee’s morning rush was in full swing, the line for coffee snaking out the door. My strategic corner booth was hidden behind the crowd. Another disruption to my careful routine.
When I made it inside, fresh espresso mingled with vanilla and cinnamon. Usually, this was comforting—a ritual that marked the beginning of another job—but today the aroma made my stomach churn.
Two men in navy suits occupied the corner window tables, and I didn’t know which was my mark. For the first time in years, I’d have to slide in as the guest, not the host.
I snapped a quick photo, my hands shaking enough to blur the first attempt.
Me
Which one?
The response came instantly.
Client #343
Right side.
Marcus caught my eye from behind the counter. My favorite barista raised an eyebrow in our usual silent code. Need backup?
I shook my head. Marcus had witnessed enough of my “meetings” to read the signs. The sharp click of my heels against hardwood sounded like a countdown to detonation.
The mark’s broad shoulders filled his suit with the practiced ease of old money. Something about how he held himself tugged at my memory—a ghost of familiarity that sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine. His fingers drummed against the coffee cup in a rhythm I knew too well. But that was impossible. He was just another client, another navy suit in a city full of them.
I approached, hating this new angle, this loss of control. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The train was?—”
He turned, and my practiced script died in my throat. Kingston-blue eyes met mine—and the color drained from our faces. Five years vanished between one heartbeat and the next, leaving me dizzy with the force of remembering. The familiar scent of his cologne slammed into me, yanking me straight back in time.
My legs wobbled as I lowered myself into what should have been my power seat. Every layer of armor I’d painstakingly built buckled under the sheer force of his presence. This was all wrong. I wasn’t Savvy Honeysucker right now—I was the breakup broker, the queen of clean exits .
But staring at him, it seemed like that polished persona was slipping away. I wasn’t the confident professional I’d trained myself to be. I was twenty-two again, back in River Bend, letting Henry Kingston trace constellations on my skin while the Hudson lapped against the dock. I couldn’t be that girl again. Not here. Not now. The familiar scent of his cologne, unchanged from those summers, hit me like a freight train. My stomach twisted, and I gripped the edge of the table to keep from bolting.
Henry had been the center of every dream I’d let myself believe in back then. He was the boy who’d kissed me on the dock at sunset and whispered promises of forever while fireflies danced around us. And he was the one who’d left me to piece together the ruins of those dreams alone.
“Savvy?” His voice was rough, incredulous. The coffee cup clattered against its saucer, dark liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “What in the ... how are you...?”
Hearing my name in his voice hit like the distant rumble of a storm you thought had moved on. His gaze lingered on the freckles on my collarbone—freckles he used to trace with his fingertips under the dim glow of string lights on my parents’ porch. No. I couldn’t let my mind wander there.
“Your girlfriend,” I managed, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. “She hired me.”
The words hung between us like a live wire.
I forced my hands to stay steady as I placed my phone face-down on the table, buying precious seconds to compose myself. I never had to look at client messages during meetings. Never. But seeing Henry sitting there, those eyes watching my every move, had scattered my usually perfect recall.
Just read it. Get through it. End it .
With fingers that shook, I picked up my phone and pulled up the message, the bright screen swimming before my eyes. “She said, and I quote—” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and started again. “I refuse to enter a union based on my monetary worth. I deserve more than a marriage built on bank statements and business mergers. I want—” Another breath. “I want to marry for love, not to expand family empires or satisfy parental expectations. I want someone who sees me as more than a corporate asset.”
The words were like glass in my mouth, each cutting deeper than the last. But what twisted the knife wasn’t the message—it was Henry’s response.
I expected anger. Expected hurt. Expected anything but the long exhale that escaped him, his shoulders dropping as if a burden had just been lifted. Relief. Pure, unmistakable relief flooded his features.
He adjusted in his seat, and something slipped from his pocket—a velvet box tumbled to the floor, its dark surface collecting coffee shop dust.
My gaze dropped to the box. Everything I’d dreamed about in my early twenties lay inside that box, everything I’d imagined on those endless summer nights when we’d talk about forever.
I looked back at Henry, tears burning behind my eyes. “You came here to propose?” My voice cracked on the last word. “And she’s refusing to marry you.”
Something dangerously close to satisfaction twisted through the hurt in my chest. Karma had a cruel sense of humor. Here was Henry Kingston, finally ready to commit, holding out the dream I’d once desperately wanted—only to face the very thing he’d given me—rejection.
His relief vanished. He leaned forward, one hand reaching across the table. “Savvy, it’s not what?—”
“Don’t.” The word came out harder than I intended. Professional. Distant. The tone I reserved for clients trying to negotiate. “You disappeared without a word. You have no right to explain. Not now.”
“Please, if you’d just listen?—”
“I was willing to listen for years, but that time has passed. You aren’t even upset that she’s dumping you. You’re still the same Henry, the one who could walk away without emotion.”
I shoved my phone back into my purse, needing something to do with my hands.
I stood, my legs shaking. Before I could stop myself, I bent down, picked up the box, and opened it. Inside, a flawless diamond sat in pristine platinum, every angle precision-cut, every detail perfect.
“Seems perfect,” I said, snapping the box closed and placing it on the table with a soft click. “Like everything else in your world. Flawless. Colorless. Lifeless. Just for show.”
I turned to leave, my heels clicking against the hardwood like a countdown. Three steps. Two. One.
“Savvy!” His voice carried over the morning crowd, raw and desperate. A few heads turned.
I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. Because even now, even after everything, he could still undo me faster than a summer storm.
I burst out of Rise and Grind Coffee. The Paper Crane was right next door. Its window display of handmade stationery and imported journals is usually a calming sight, but today, I barely noticed the artful arrangement as I pushed through the door.
The soft chime of bells overhead was lost in the rush of blood in my ears. The shop clerk glanced up from arranging a display of fountain pens but merely nodded as I made a beeline for the back hall restroom. The lock clicked behind me like a gunshot in the tiny space. My legs gave out, and I slid down the wall to the cold cement floor. My hands shook as I pulled out my phone.
Me
911. Paper Crane bathroom. Henry Kingston. HELP.
I hit send to Ivy and Maddy, then let my head fall back against the wall, counting my breaths like I used to count the cars on the Hudson Line, waiting for my best friends to come and piece me back together. Again.