Chapter 67
Lauren
The shops had gone pink. Heart-shaped displays in every window, satin ribbons curling around boxes of chocolates, roses stacked in buckets like stockpiled ammunition.
Lauren crossed the street, the wind biting at her cheeks. February. The month that had once meant Tom and romance and decorating the house with too many hearts.
She wanted that again.
Inside Muse, the office was buzzing. Wren had queued a playlist full of love songs; Rina had brought cupcakes topped with edible glitter. Even in a workplace as effortlessly cool as this, no one could resist a theme.
“The Valentine’s Day feature is killing it online,” Zoe said, dropping into the chair opposite her desk.
Lauren looked up from her desk.
“It’s iconic,” Zoe grinned. “You look amazing. Fierce. Rich divorcées everywhere are going to want one of your pieces to hang in their foyers.”
Lauren smiled, but her stomach turned with a complicated mix of pride and discomfort. The piece had been a commission—someone else’s message, someone else’s declaration.
Lauren wasn’t divorced AF. Lauren was ready for her husband to come home.
She turned back to her computer, scrolling through messages from potential new clients.
Every email was flattering. Every inquiry felt surreal.
She was thrilled. Mostly.
But still—when she packed up that evening, when she stepped out into the drizzle and saw the couples walking hand in hand, she felt something hollow open in her chest.
At home, the house was quiet. The living room still held traces of him. His extension plans spread out on the side table where she’d been looking over them again.
She set down her bag and switched on a lamp. The soft glow reached the corner where her craft supplies had begun to creep down from the attic—fabric, ribbon, sketches for new commissions.
Her future.
Her independence.
Everything she’d built from the ashes of that awful Christmas.
And yet—
Lauren touched her ring finger.
She thought about Tom, the look in his eyes when he’d left her door last week—the quiet determination.
The rain pattered harder against the window.
Valentine’s Day was tomorrow. The most romantic day of the year.
She reached for her sketchbook, the familiar object grounding her.
She didn’t know what she’d make yet. Something bold. Something defiant. Not anything for a client tonight. She wanted something for herself.
She’d told herself she was only going to sketch.
But the sketch had turned into cutting, then layering, then stitching. Her hands knew what they wanted before her brain did.
The dining table was a chaos of fabric and ribbon and half-finished ideas. Scissors, paintbrushes, the faint smell of glue. Her favorite kind of mess.
The piece wasn’t about clients or commissions or hashtags. It was for her.
A heart, yes—but not perfect. Not symmetrical or polished or safe.
This one was patchwork. Torn edges. Visible seams.
Real.
As she worked, the emotions ran through her like waves: frustration, sorrow. And underneath it all. Anger.
She thought of that Christmas. And then she thought of now.
Of Tom.
She jabbed the needle through the fabric, sharp and certain.
Staid, solid, boring Tom Barrett.
Except—he wasn’t boring anymore.
She thought of the lace boxer briefs and felt the heat rising in her cheeks.
It had been a look that shouldn’t have worked on him but somehow did. The bravery of it. The vulnerability. It had been ridiculous at first—and then it hadn’t.
Her mouth curved faintly. She stitched another line.
And the necklace. The one he’d made himself, all lumpy and uneven, each bead threaded with apology and hope. He’d worn it himself because it had come out so badly.
She pressed another patch into place and smoothed it flat.
Anger and peace coexisted under her fingertips.
She could forgive him for being human.
She could even forgive herself for still loving him.
The heart was taking shape now—messy and imperfect, edges raw but beautiful.
It wasn’t the clean defiance of Divorced AF. It was something else. Something quieter.
At the center, she painted one word in careful white strokes: STILL
Still trying. Still married. Still his.
Lauren sat back and looked at what she’d made. She felt broken and whole, furious and grateful, soft and strong.
Tomorrow would be Valentine’s Day. A day surrounded by her champions at Muse—women who saw her, celebrated her, lifted her up.
It was the evening she wasn’t ready for.
She brushed her thumb over the word at the center of the heart. Still.