6. Josie
My eyes were swollen. I’d spent the whole yesterday and night crying into my pillow, and honestly, I didn't think a breakup could feel like this. I was an idiot for thinking I could just snap out of it.
Three years. That’s how much time I gave him. Three years of my life, gone, because it turns out every single part of it was a lie. Every kiss and every "I love you" felt like a piece of broken glass now, cutting me deeper every time I tried to think of a memory that didn't suck.
I started down the grand staircase. Each step I took made a loud, lonely thud against the marble floors of the house. I could feel the coldness of the place sinking into my skin.
She was waiting for me at the bottom. Helena. My mother was standing there in a power suit that probably cost more than what most of our employees made in a year. She had her arms crossed and her eyes were sharp, looking at me like she was ready to tear me apart.
"Josephine," she snapped, her voice echoing. "Where the hell have you been?"
I rolled my eyes, already dreading the conversation that was about to happen, "Out," I replied, trying to keep my tone neutral. I knew it would only piss her off more, but I wasn’t in the mood to offer any explanations.
"Out where?" she snapped, "Do you have any idea what I went through, worrying about you? Where did you spend the night? And who was that man you came back with? Have you thought about how this looks to Harrison?"
I met her gaze with a glare of my own, crossing my arms tightly over my chest, "That’s none of your business," I fired back, my tone as cold as I could make it, "And it’s sure as hell not Harrison’s business either. I don't care what Harrison thinks!"
Her eyes narrowed, flashing with anger as she stepped closer, "None of my business? Josie, I’m your mother. You vanished for an entire night without a word, of course, it’s my business. And this man… who is he? You don't just trust anyone. You should stay away from someone like that."
I rolled my eyes, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. “Oh, here we go,” I shot back, “Just because you don’t like someone, I’m supposed to drop everything and stay away? Give me a break, Mom. You don’t know anything about him.”
"And neither do you!" she fired back, "For all you know, he could be dangerous."
I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me, "Oh, that’s rich, coming from you," I replied, "What’s your solution? That I date another one of your bodyguards? Another ‘boyfriend’ who’s really just there to report back to you?"
Her face tightened, "I did what I had to do to keep you safe."
"Safe? You mean controlled," I shot back. "You always do this, Mom. You manipulate everything and everyone around you to fit your perfect little narrative. Well, newsflash, I’m not your puppet."
"Josephine!" she warned.
But I wasn’t backing down, "You put Harrison in my life because you didn’t trust me, because you didn’t think I could handle myself.
I spent years with him, loving him, building this picture in my mind of our future together.
And then, just like that, I find out it was all a lie?
Just another one of your plans to keep me under your thumb? "
"That’s not what this is about," she insisted, but her voice wavered just enough for me to catch it.
"Isn’t it?" I challenged, "Because it sure feels like it. You can’t stand the thought of me making my own choices, living my own life. So, you turn everything into a threat, something I need to be protected from."
Her lips thinned into a tight line, and for a moment, I thought she might explode. But instead, she sighed, rubbing her temples like she was suddenly exhausted. "Josephine, I’m only trying to protect you. You’re my only daughter. I love you."
I swallowed hard, my throat feeling tight. "I know you think you’re helping. But you have to let me live my life, Mom. Even if that means I mess up and make mistakes, they have to be my mistakes."
She didn’t say anything more as I turned to leave, but I could feel her eyes on me, still worried, still protective. And as much as I hated to admit it, a part of me understood why. But that didn’t mean I was going to back down.
· · ?? · ·
The days all ran together, like one long, gray blur. My room became my little safe spot, a place where the world couldn’t reach me. I spent most of my time wrapped in my sheets, staring at the ceiling or out the window at the tiny city lights far away. I didn’t even go to work.
My phone buzzed nonstop on the nightstand, Mom, Harrison, always calling or texting. Sometimes apologies, sometimes demands for answers. I didn’t touch them. Every buzz made my chest twist, so I just pushed the phone away and pretended it didn’t exist.
When the silence got too loud, I’d call my friends.
They didn’t ask too many questions. They didn’t care about the dark circles under my eyes, or that I barely ate, or that I needed to keep moving like I could outrun the emptiness.
They just pulled me out, dragged me from one thing to the next, made me laugh a little, even if it only lasted a few minutes.
One night we went to a jazz bar. Small, hidden with that kind of dim light that makes you feel invisible in the best way.
The saxophones cried and moaned and my chest hurt with it.
I sat at a tiny table with some friends, nursing a glass of wine.
I laughed at their jokes, felt their warmth, and for a moment I almost forgot.
Then the song changed, and the emptiness came back, creeping in like it always did. My hand went to my phone, buzzing again, but I didn’t answer.
The next day, we went on a random trip to the coast. The ocean stretched forever, blue and wild. The wind slapped my face, messed my hair, and I just stood there, looking at the waves smashing against the rocks.
My friends talked and laughed around me, but I wasn’t really there. I thought about tossing my phone in the ocean, letting it sink, letting everything go, but I didn’t. I turned it off, shoved it in my bag, and tried to disappear from the world for a little while longer.
Dinner was at a small seaside restaurant with worn wooden tables and strings of tiny lights that flickered as the sun sank. We ordered too much food, shared it all, and I even smiled a little. Real smiles, not fake ones. My friends kept the chat light, and didn’t pull me back into dark places.
They talked about college, about silly adventures, about the future. I nodded, letting myself be part of it. But every so often, my eyes flicked to my bag, imagining it lighting up with another call from Harrison.
Back in the city, I tried to stay busy. Art galleries, crowded museums, walking the streets until my legs ached. I ate in loud restaurants, watched people, listened to noise, and anything to remind myself that life was still moving.
The city was alive, and slowly, I started feeling a little alive too. The hollow spot Harrison left inside me didn’t feel so empty all the time. I was starting to breathe again, to laugh, to live. Maybe even starting to get over him.
Piece by piece, I was taking my life back. Smiling at strangers, dancing a little when a good song came on, stopping myself from checking my phone every five minutes. It was my life, not just a version of it that revolved around him.
Some days were still hard. I’d smell a cologne that reminded me of Harrison or hear a laugh like his, and it hit me like a punch. But those moments were smaller now, fewer, and the weight was lifting, slowly.
I wasn’t looking for him in every face that passed. I wasn’t trying to fill the empty space with anything temporary. I was letting go, one slow heartbeat at a time. And it… it actually felt kind of good.
· · ?? · ·
I swung around on the barstool, trying not to make it squeak too loudly, even though it probably did anyway.
The black dress I’d picked out hugged my thighs like it had been made for me alone. Totally worth the boutique in SoHo where I’d spent more money than I wanted to admit.
My reflection in the tiny mirror behind the bar gave me a little nod, like even I had to admit, I looked good.
My heels were the perfect height, tall enough but not so tall that I’d faceplant on the dance floor after two drinks. Tonight I went for an updo. Loose curls pinned just right, sparkling diamond studs catching the club lights like tiny paparazzi flashes. I looked good. I felt good.
Last time, I was here, I’d been nursing a broken heart like it was a fine wine that refused to be drunk. Tonight, my broken heart was gone. At least I wasn’t plotting revenge or crying in the bathroom. Tonight I was… well, I was ready.
Ready for life. Ready to talk to humans again. Ready to flirt, maybe. Probably embarrass myself. But mostly ready.
The bartender, the same guy from before, caught my eye, “Back for more?” he asked, leaning on the counter with that half-smile.
“Of course I’m back,” I said, leaning my elbows on the bar, “Someone has to keep you entertained.”
He chuckled, “What are you having tonight?” he asked, grabbing a glass and polishing it with a cloth.
“Surprise me,” I said, “But don’t give me that five-alarm, can’t-feel-my-face type of drink.”
He gave a tiny nod, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, and went off to mix something.
I crossed my legs, leaned back, and took in the scene. The club was alive, buzzing with people. Tables full of perfect hair and overpriced drinks, a couple making out in the corner, others laughing.
I tapped my fingers on the bar. My eyes wandered over the dance floor, and my mouth twitched into a grin.
A pair was grinding like their lives depended on it, a man spilled his drink on his own shoes, and someone laughed so loud it made me snort.
I loved it. Loved everything about it. The people, the lights, the chaos.
“Here you go,” the bartender said, sliding a drink my way. It was a pretty shade of pink with a slice of lime perched on the rim.
“What’s this?” I asked, eyeing it suspiciously.
“Trust me, you’ll like it. Think of it as a little adventure in a glass.”
I took a sip, letting the flavors wash over my tongue, sweet, but with a kick.
“Oh,” I blinked. “Okay. That’s… actually disrespectfully good.”
He smirked like he’d just won something.
I glanced at him and then at the drink, needing someone to talk to, “You ever get bored working here? All these people coming in, trying to drink their troubles away?”
He shrugged, wiping down the counter again, “Sometimes, but then I get people like you, and it’s not so bad.”
I laughed, “Glad I could provide some entertainment.”
I took another sip of my drink, feeling the pleasant buzz begin to settle in. I was mid-daydream, letting my gaze wander across the nightclub when I heard a deep, familiar voice beside me.
“Whiskey. Neat.”
I froze mid-sip and nearly inhaled my drink like an idiot.
No.
No freaking way.
I turned slowly, like if I moved too fast he’d disappear again.
And there he was.
Mystery guy.
My personal nightmare-slash-superhero. The one who saved me, scolded me like I was a reckless toddler, and vanished into the shadows like he had a tragic backstory and a motorcycle waiting somewhere.
And yeah, still unfairly hot, still calm like nothing in this world could touch him, still looking like he walked straight out of a magazine shoot for emotionally unavailable men.
“Hey! I know you!” I blurted, a smile spreading across my face before I could help it.
I could feel the bartender’s eyes flick over to me, and his eyes widened like I have committed the most outrageous sin, don't know why.
“You’re the guy from that night. Remember? The whole alleyway fiasco? You saved me! And then there was that… er, unfortunate puking incident. Do you remember me?”
He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting mine. Those eyes, oh, still that deep hazel that could burn through anything. For a second, I thought I saw a flicker of recognition, but then his face settled back into that cool, indifferent mask, “I don’t forget people.”
“Well, that’s a relief!” I laughed, leaning a bit closer, my elbow propped on the bar, “Because I’ve been thinking about you, not like obsessively, or in a creepy way or anything.
Just, you know, wondering if I’d ever run into you again.
The city’s a big place, but it has a funny way of making it feel like a small world, huh? ”
He didn’t respond immediately, just took a sip of his whiskey, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Still not one for small talk—or any talk, for that matter. But I wasn’t about to let a little stone-cold demeanor scare me off. I’d already embarrassed myself once in front of him; what was a little more?
“And, hey,” I kept going, not even stopping to catch my breath, “I mean, you were basically like a superhero that night, seriously. Just swooping in out of nowhere. You were kind of my knight in shining armor or, okay, maybe a knight in a leather jacket? Or an expensive wool jacket? Not that you actually seem like the ‘knight’ type, because you’re more like the ‘I totally don't care about anything but I’ll help you anyway’ type.
Which is honestly so cool. It’s mysterious.
You just have this whole vibe going on, you know? ”
His jaw tightened just a fraction, and his eyes slid back over to me, assessing. “I don’t ‘swoop.’” he said, each word clipped like he was conserving energy.
I blinked, then laughed, a sound that seemed far too bright, “Okay, okay. Not swooping. Duly noted. More like… tactical maneuvering, then? Either way, you were there. And, look, if I’m being honest, I wasn’t exactly in the best place that night.
Mentally, I mean. Or geographically. Bad spot. Bad timing. The works.”
He said nothing, just took another slow drink of his whiskey, his gaze drifting back to the rows of bottles behind the bar. I could tell he wasn’t going to make this easy. But there was something about the challenge of cracking that ice-cold exterior that I couldn’t resist.
Another reason was that my mother would never approve of someone like him.
“And,” I added, “I have to say, you made quite an impression. Not that it was hard, considering the state I was in. But I remember thinking, ‘Wow, this guy could probably take down a small army with just one glare.’ Do you practice that in the mirror, or does it just come naturally?”
He turned his head just a little, the barest hint of something playing on his lips, like he was almost—almost—amused, “You talk too much.”
I grinned wider, feeling oddly triumphant. “I know. It’s a talent, really. Or a curse, depending on who you ask,” I leaned back, still smiling, “Can I buy you a drink for ruining your Louboutins? What's your drink of choice?"
His expression hardened again, the brief flicker of something human snuffed out as quickly as it appeared, “I like whiskey.”
My smile brightened, relieved that he hadn’t completely shut me down, “Whiskey! Got it,” I turned to the bartender, ordering his drink, feeling a little rush of accomplishment.
I couldn’t help but feel like I’d won something here tonight. A tiny crack in the armor. Maybe not much, but enough to make me curious. Enough to keep me leaning in, smiling, waiting to see what might come next.
When the bartender slid the glass over, I placed it carefully in front of him, almost like an offering, “Here you go,” I said with a soft smile. “One whiskey, neat, just like you like it.”
He nodded, barely acknowledging me, his fingers wrapping around the glass in that same steady, controlled way I’d come to expect from him. But his silence wasn’t enough to stop me from talking. If anything, it spurred me on, my nerves kicking into high gear.
“So, funny thing…” I began, and before I could stop myself, the words just kept flowing.
“I actually don’t know much about whiskey.
I mean, I’ve had it before, like, in cocktails and stuff, but never on its own.
I feel like it’s one of those drinks you have to develop a taste for, you know?
Like coffee. Or olives. Do you like olives?
I love them. Especially the green ones with the little pimentos inside.
But I also heard that people who like olives are, like, super stubborn.
Something about their taste buds and personality traits being linked. Weird, right?”
He didn’t say anything, just took a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes flicking over to me once before returning to some distant point behind the bar. His silence was almost unnerving, but I kept going.
“Anyway,” I continued, “I’ve been trying to expand my tastes lately.
You know, try new things. I feel like life’s too short to stick to the same old routine all the time.
Like, I went to this sushi place the other day, and they had sea urchin on the menu.
Have you ever tried it? It’s super weird at first, but then it kind of grows on you.
The texture is… well, it’s different, but once you get past that, it’s actually pretty good.
But some people can’t handle the texture, and I get that. My mom would never.”
Still nothing from him. He took another sip of his whiskey, his expression unchanged, like he wasn’t even really listening to what I was saying.
But I could tell he was, in his own way.
His eyes would flick to mine every so often, and the slightest movement of his jaw or the subtle narrowing of his eyes told me he was paying attention, even if he wasn’t engaging.
“So, speaking of my mom,” I continued, leaning a little closer without even realizing it, "I hate her!"
I couldn’t help it, I just kept talking.
The words spilled out of me like I’d been holding them in for too long.
Maybe I had. This guy, sitting there, somehow made me feel safe enough to ramble on and on.
And maybe it was the fact that he barely said anything back, just these short, clipped answers, that made it easier for me to keep going.
It felt like talking to a wall. An impossibly hot, cold, intimidating wall.
“So yeah,” I continued, waving my hands for emphasis, “Harrison, my boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—turns out he was never even my boyfriend. Can you believe that? Three years! Three years, and he was just some security guy hired by my mother. God, she probably handpicked him like he was an accessory or something. Someone who could match my shoes or purse. Ridiculous, right?”
I glanced over at him, waiting for some reaction. Nothing. His face was a stone mask, his eyes flicking over me just once before he gave the tiniest nod, “Yeah.”
“Yeah? That’s it?” I raised an eyebrow, a small laugh escaping. “I mean, I was pissed! Who does that? Who lies about who they are for three whole years? Oh, wait, Harrison does. And my mom. The two of them, plotting together like I’m some kind of damsel in distress.”
His fingers wrapped around his whiskey glass, and he gave a short grunt, barely even looking up “Mm-hm.”
“Right?! It’s insane! And you know the worst part?
He was so perfect. Like, perfect. The guy could cook, clean, do all that ‘good boyfriend’ stuff.
He even listened to me rant about my day!
But it was all a lie. Just some job he got paid to do.
No real feelings, no real love, just… duty.
” I rolled my eyes, huffing a breath, “Ugh, it’s disgusting.
Now, I can’t even look at him without wanting to throw something. ”
His jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained as cool as ever, “Sounds rough.”
I let out a frustrated sigh. “Exactly! It is rough. So, I decided, screw it! I took off. Packed a bag, grabbed my passport, and spent a month just... escaping. No work, no responsibilities, just me, doing whatever the hell I wanted. Do you know how freeing that was? It was incredible. I globe-trotted, hit every city I could think of—Paris, Tokyo, Barcelona—you name it. And the best part? No one could tell me what to do. Not Harrison, not my mom, nobody.”
I paused, waiting for him to say something. Maybe ask where I’d been, what I’d seen. But no. He just lifted his glass, took a sip, and set it down again, like I hadn’t just told him I’d gone on a global adventure.
I laughed awkwardly, trying to fill the silence, “You know, my mom would hate you,” I didn’t mean to say that, but it just slipped out, “She’d lose her mind if I even looked at someone like you.
And, God, that makes you even more perfect.
It’s like, the more she tries to control me, the more I want to run in the opposite direction. ”
His eyes flicked over to me, a slight narrowing of his gaze, “Is that right?”
“Yup!” I grinned, maybe a little too brightly. “She’d have a heart attack. You’re exactly what she’d hate. Dark, brooding, scary, no offense. That’s a compliment, by the way.”
He didn’t respond, just shifted slightly in his seat, his fingers tapping lightly on the glass, “Sure.”
“Anyway,” I continued, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I just wanted to live for myself, you know? Do things my way for once. And Harrison… God, I’m so glad he’s out of my life.
I mean, I hated the way he always looked at me like I was some fragile thing that needed protecting.
I don’t need protecting. I’m not some helpless princess trapped in a tower. I can take care of myself.”
His eyes narrowed again, his voice low, “You sure about that?”
“Positive,” I shot back, a little too quickly, “I don’t need anyone watching over me. Especially not some guy handpicked by my mother.”
I let out another laugh, running a hand through my hair. I’d been talking for so long, and I realized he’d barely said ten words the entire time. But somehow, I didn’t mind. It felt good to vent, to spill everything out without judgment.
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze finally fixed on me, like he was sizing me up, figuring me out without saying a thing. It was unnerving, but kind of thrilling at the same time. Like I wanted to get under his skin just a little, see what made him tick.
I paused, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious just by his stare. I’d been talking for hours, and he’d barely said anything. Yet, it wasn’t like talking to someone who wasn’t interested, it was like talking to someone who was choosing not to speak.
I hesitated, glancing down at my drink. My nerves bubbled up, and I bit my lip before I dared to look at him again.
“You know… I was thinking,” I paused, trying to keep my voice casual, but there was no hiding the nervousness behind it, “Maybe, I don’t know, you’d want to grab dinner sometime?
I mean, you’re already here, and I’ve been talking your ear off for hours, so maybe I owe you one.
As a thank-you for, you know, not just walking away. ”
He didn’t respond immediately, just kept his gaze locked on me, like he was sizing me up again. His jaw tightened, the silence stretching just long enough for me to wonder if I’d completely overstepped. Maybe I’d misread the whole situation, and I was about to get a cold, brutal rejection.
But then, his eyes flicked to mine, and he gave the briefest of nods, “Dinner?”
“Yeah,” I said, quickly, “Dinner. Tomorrow night? Nothing fancy. Just... dinner.”
He didn’t smile,.of course, he didn’t. But there was the slightest shift in his expression, just a hint of something that wasn’t total indifference, “Okay.”
“Okay?” My heart skipped a beat. I had to fight the urge to grin too wide, “Great. Tomorrow, then. Eight o’clock?”
He nodded again, his fingers tapping once on his glass, “Eight.”
I offered him my hand for a handshake, "I'm Josephine, by the way, Josephine Van Alen."
He took my hand in his large, inked ones, "Tristan Kincaid."
For a moment, I couldn’t believe it. He’d actually said yes. After all my rambling, all the silence, the cold responses, he’d agreed. I had no idea what tomorrow would bring, but it was the first time in a long while I felt like I was making a decision just for me.
And maybe, just maybe, it would be exactly the kind of rebellion my mother would hate.