Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Farley
The release party for Savannah Flores's Flowering Hearts of Desire was everything a bestselling romance author deserved: champagne towers that caught the light like liquid gold, a string quartet playing in the corner of the Tribeca loft, and enough floral arrangements to make a funeral director weep with envy.
White roses and peonies cascaded from every available surface, their scent mixing with expensive perfume and the sharp tang of success.
I stood near the entrance with my clipboard—yes, an actual clipboard, because my phone had died twenty minutes ago and I was nothing if not prepared—and checked off arrivals against my meticulously organized guest list.
Agents: 15/18 confirmed.
Publishers (competing houses, invite out of professional courtesy): 4/6 confirmed.
BookTok influencers (Savannah's request, not mine): 8/10 confirmed.
Celebrities who'd posted about the book: 2/3 confirmed.
Everything was going according to plan, which should have made me happy. Instead, I felt the familiar tightness in my chest that came from orchestrating someone else's perfect moment while my own life was a meticulously organized disaster.
"Farley!" Savannah swept toward me in a floor-length pink gown that matched her book cover, her dark hair piled in an artful updo, diamonds glittering at her throat.
She looked like a goddess, which was fitting considering she'd just hit number one on the New York Times list for the third time.
"This is amazing. How do you always make everything so perfect? "
"It's a gift," I said, forcing a smile. "And a curse. Mostly a curse."
She laughed and squeezed my arm, her eyes scanning the room. "Is that Reese Witherspoon's book club coordinator over there?"
"Yes. She's been here for ten minutes. I seated her near the champagne fountain and made sure she had first access to the advanced reader copies."
"You're a miracle worker." Savannah leaned in conspiratorially. "Where's Ollie? I wanted to thank you both for everything you've done for this book."
My smile felt like it might crack my face in half. "He's around somewhere. Probably networking. You know how he is."
"The power couple of publishing," Savannah said warmly. "You two are relationship goals, you know that?"
I made a noncommittal sound and pretended to check my clipboard. Goals. Right. If the goal was to slowly lose yourself in someone else's ambition while pretending everything was fine.
Ollie and I had been together for three years, four months, and—I checked my watch—approximately six hours. Not that I was counting. I definitely wasn't the type of person who kept track of relationship milestones in a color-coded spreadsheet. That would be obsessive.
(I absolutely kept a color-coded spreadsheet.)
We'd met at a book launch for a literary thriller that neither of our houses had published, which made it neutral territory.
He'd been charming, brilliant, and shared my love of obscure poetry and pretentious coffee.
Within three months, we were the couple everyone in publishing knew about.
We co-hosted dinner parties. We attended award ceremonies together.
We'd even done a panel at BookExpo about "The Future of Literary Fiction" that had been live-tweeted by at least a dozen industry insiders.
And tonight, I was finally going to surprise him.
I reached into my jacket pocket and felt the printed confirmation for the cabin rental in Ashford Gap, Virginia.
One month in the Blue Ridge Mountains, just the two of us.
No agents, no authors, no publishing drama.
Just us, a fireplace, and maybe—finally—a chance to remember why we'd fallen in love in the first place.
I'd been planning this for two months. Made lists. Checked them twice. Hell, I'd made lists of my lists.
Things to Pack for Romantic Mountain Getaway:
1. Wine (the good stuff from that boutique place in Brooklyn)
2. Ollie's favorite coffee beans
3. That cashmere sweater he always steals from me
4. The first edition of his favorite Auden collection (wrapped)
I was going to tell him tonight, after the party wound down. We'd go back to my apartment, and I'd present him with the printed itinerary in a tasteful envelope, and he'd—
"Farley? Earth to Farley?"
I blinked and found Roger standing in front of me, my twenty-four-year-old personal assistant who looked like he'd stepped out of a GQ spread for "Twinks Who Could Ruin Your Life." Blond highlights, a perfectly tailored suit, and a smile that could sell ice to penguins.
"Sorry," I said. "Just making sure everything's running smoothly. Did you confirm the photographer for the—"
"Done. She's setting up near the book display." Roger tilted his head, studying me with those unsettlingly blue eyes. "You okay? You seem tense."
"I'm always tense. It's my brand."
"True." He laughed. "Hey, have you seen Ollie? He was looking for you earlier."
"No, I've been—" I gestured vaguely at the clipboard, at the party, at the controlled chaos that was my natural habitat. "Tell him I'm by the entrance if you find him."
Roger's smile widened just a fraction. "Will do, boss."
He disappeared into the crowd, and I hoped he liked the gift I’d bought for him at Bergdorf’s.
A Dior shirt that cost a fortune, but he deserved it.
Roger had been my assistant for eight months, and he was good at his job—great, even.
He anticipated my needs, managed my calendar with military precision, and never complained when I sent him seventeen emails before 8 AM.
I glanced down at my clipboard and saw that the caterers needed to start circulating the hors d'oeuvres in ten minutes.
The photographer wanted a group shot with Savannah and her agent in fifteen.
The BookTok influencers needed to be herded toward the branded backdrop for their promotional videos in—
"Excuse me, are you Farley Davenport?"
I looked up to find a woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair and a gaze that could strip paint. "Yes?"
"Patricia Caldwell, Publishers Weekly. I was hoping to get a quote about Savannah's success and your editorial process."
Shit. I hadn't prepared for interviews. That wasn't on my list.
"Of course," I said smoothly, sliding into my professional persona like a well-worn coat. "Savannah is a phenomenal talent, and it's been an honor to work with her. Her ability to craft emotionally resonant stories with commercial appeal is—"
I continued on autopilot, giving the same quotes I'd given a dozen times before, while my mind wandered to the cabin. To Ollie. To the future I was trying to build for us.
Twenty minutes later, I'd talked to three journalists, two literary agents trying to poach my authors, and one romance novelist who'd had too much champagne and kept asking if I was single.
I was checking my list again—champagne refills, photographer grouping, Savannah's reading in thirty minutes—when I realized I hadn't seen Ollie in over an hour.
I made my way through the crowd, smiling and nodding at familiar faces, until I reached the coat closet near the back of the loft. The door was slightly ajar, and I heard a groan. Was somebody hurt?
My hand was on the door handle before my brain could stop me.
I opened it.
And found Ollie with his tongue down Roger's throat.
Time did something strange. Stretched and compressed simultaneously. I saw everything with perfect clarity: Ollie's hand tangled in Roger's highlighted hair. Roger's fingers clutching the back of Ollie's jacket. The way they broke apart, eyes wide, guilty.
"Farley—" Ollie started.
I didn't wait to hear the rest.
I turned and walked—no, fled—through the party. Past Savannah, who called my name. Past the champagne fountain. Past the string quartet and the white roses and the perfectly arranged future I'd built in my mind.
Someone grabbed my arm. Savannah's agent, maybe. "Farley, are you—"
"I have to go."
"But the reading—"
"Cancel it. Reschedule it. I don't care."
I pushed through the door and into the December cold, my breath coming in sharp gasps that had nothing to do with the temperature. Behind me, I could hear voices, confusion, someone saying my name.
I kept walking.
Three blocks later, I realized I'd left my coat. Six blocks later, I realized I was crying. By the time I made it to my apartment in the West Village, I'd composed and deleted seventeen text messages to Ollie, each one more pathetic than the last.
I let myself into my apartment—a one-bedroom that cost more than it should and smelled like the lavender candles I burned obsessively—and immediately poured myself three fingers of bourbon. Then I poured another finger because apparently I was bad at measuring emotional devastation.
My phone buzzed. Fifty-three unread messages.
Savannah: OMG are you okay? What happened?
Savannah: Farley please call me
Savannah: I'm so sorry, whatever it is, I'm so sorry
I scrolled past hers and found the ones I was dreading.
Ollie: We need to talk.
Ollie: It's not what you think.
Ollie: Farley, please.
And then, most recently:
Ollie: I'm coming over.
"Fuck that," I said to my empty apartment, and poured another drink.
I opened my laptop and pulled up my packing list for the mountain cabin. Things to Pack for Romantic Mountain Getaway stared back at me, mocking in its optimism.
I deleted "Romantic" from the title.
Then I deleted "Getaway" because it sounded too cheerful.
Things to Pack for Mountain Exile felt more accurate.
I opened a new document and started a different list:
Things I Ignored Because I'm an Idiot:
1. The way Roger always found excuses to stay late when Ollie visited my office
2. Ollie's sudden interest in "helping" me with editorial letters (he was stealing my notes)
3. That time I caught them having coffee and they both looked guilty
4. The fact that Ollie's been distant for months
5. My own fucking intuition
My phone rang. Ollie.