Chapter 4
Strong arms lifted me from the cold pavement, and I felt myself being carried toward warmth and light. Car doors slammed somewhere in the distance, an engine revved to life, and as I was gently placed on what felt like leather seats, my consciousness drifted in and out like waves against the shore.
The pain in my shoulder throbbed constantly, but there was something else too—a voice murmured reassurances, a hand held mine, and the scent of expensive cologne was achingly familiar. I tried to focus, tried to stay awake, but the combination of blood loss and shock pulled me under.
As the car moved through the night, carrying me away from that alley and everything that happened there, my mind retreated to safer territory.
To memories that hurt less than the present.
To understand how I ended up there, bleeding and broken and running for my life, I have to go back to the beginning.
Back to six months after graduation, when the memory of Kieran’s kiss still burned on my lips like a brand I couldn’t wash away…
I worked at Morrison & Associates, then a midsized marketing firm downtown that specialized in corporate rebranding.
The job was everything I thought I wanted—good pay, smart colleagues, the kind of work that required creativity and strategic thinking.
But every morning when I walked into that gleaming office building, I felt like I was wearing a costume that didn’t quite fit.
The problem was that everything reminded me of him.
The coffee shop across from my office served the same blend Kieran had introduced me to in college—back when I was juggling classes and a summer internship, still learning how to pretend I belonged in professional spaces.
The subway stop where I changed trains was two blocks from the apartment he had lived in then, when our lives still overlapped in ways that felt effortless.
Even the suit I wore to my job interview was one he’d helped me pick out, standing outside the dressing room at Nordstrom during that internship, offering opinions on what looked “professional enough” for corporate America.
He had been around a lot in those days—showing up after his shifts, filling the spaces when Jude worked late or was already talking about enlistment, carrying on like none of us yet understood how much was about to change.
I tried dating. God, how I tried. When I started noticing unfamiliar names beside his in tagged photos, the way they appeared casually and stayed.
His life was moving forward in ways that didn’t leave room for me, and I told myself I had no reason to stand still.
I began agreeing to dinners with my friends, drinks, and introductions I would have once avoided.
I let friends slide numbers across tables, smiled through first conversations, rehearsed interest on the ride home.
I treated it like a skill I could relearn, like proof I could offer myself.
If he was building something new, then surely I could too—even if I had to convince myself one date at a time.
But he was always in my mind. No matter who sat across from me, some part of my attention drifted backward, to the version of myself that hadn’t yet learned how hard it was to let go.
One of the first people I tried to make myself care about was Drake.
He was a graphic designer from the floor below mine, who asked me out for drinks after we collaborated on a campaign for a tech startup.
He was sweet and funny, with an easy laugh and the kind of artistic sensibility that should have appealed to me.
We went on three dates before I realized I was comparing everything he did to what Kieran might have done instead.
Drake was sweet, but I didn’t feel that spark of safety I felt with Kieran.
After Drake came Michael, a lawyer who lived in my building and struck up conversations with me in the elevator. Then James, a friend of a friend, took me to expensive restaurants and talked about his investment portfolio while I pushed food around my plate and wondered why I felt so empty.
By February, I gave up on dating entirely.
The effort felt exhausting, hollow, like a performance I no longer had the energy to sustain.
I threw myself into work instead, letting it take up all the space.
I stayed late at the office long after most people had gone home, volunteered for weekend projects no one else wanted, and said yes to anything that kept my calendar full.
It was easier to be useful than to be honest with myself.
Going home meant facing the quiet—the rooms that held nothing but my own thoughts.
I learned quickly how much better it felt to arrive tired enough not to notice what was missing.
By the weekend, I gave myself permission to unwind, to release some of the pressure I carried all week.
It was a Friday night in early March, and I was at Murphy’s Pub with my coworkers, celebrating the successful launch of a campaign we’d worked on for months.
The place was packed with the usual after-work crowd—young professionals unwinding after another week of corporate ladder climbing, tourists who wandered in from the nearby hotel district, and a few regulars who treated the bar like their personal living room.
I was nursing my second beer and half-listening to my colleague Jennifer complain about her latest online dating disaster when he appeared at our table.
Dex.
“Excuse me,” he said, his voice warm and confident in a way that made you want to lean in closer. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation about the Pinnacle Hotels campaign.”
I looked up to find a man in his early thirties with sandy brown hair and hazel eyes that seemed to take in everything at once.
He wore a black button-down shirt and dark jeans, the kind of carefully casual outfit that suggested he put thought into looking effortless.
There was paint under his fingernails—just a hint of blue and white that gave away his profession before he even introduced himself.
“I’m Dex Hartwell,” he said, extending his hand to me, even though there were four of us at the table.
The name sounded familiar. Of course it did. Dex Hartwell, only child of the Hartwells. I’d heard it everywhere—society columns, business articles, whispers about privilege and influence.
Before I could stop her, Jennifer leaned forward with that gleam in her eye. “Is it true what they say? You’re a black sheep?”
I shot her a warning look, but Dex just laughed—warm and easy, as though my colleague’s question were a playful tease rather than a judgment.
“Guilty,” he said with a grin. “But being the black sheep has its perks. My parents always know how to find me when I’m in trouble.”
Then he shifted his attention back to me. “I’m an artist. But I have to say, that campaign was brilliant. The way you positioned luxury as accessibility? Pure genius.”
The compliment caught me off guard. Most people outside the industry didn’t notice the strategy behind a campaign, let alone appreciate it. But Dex understood. Or at least, he seemed to.
“You’re too kind,” I said, shaking his hand and feeling something like pride flutter in my chest. “I’m Willa. Willa Winslow.”
“The pleasure’s mine, Willa Winslow.” He smiled then—a slow, devastating grin that made Jennifer kick me under the table. “Could I buy you a drink? I have a feeling I’d enjoy getting to know a creative genius like you.”
Jennifer immediately started making excuses about early morning plans and needing to catch the last train home, practically shoving me toward Dex before disappearing with the others.
And just like that, I found myself alone with a charming stranger who seemed genuinely interested in my work, my thoughts, my opinions.
We talked for hours that night.
Dex told me about his art, his large-scale paintings that explored themes of isolation and connection in urban environments.
He showed me photos on his phone: canvases covered in bold strokes of color that somehow managed to feel both chaotic and peaceful at the same time.
His work was beautiful, haunting in a way that made me want to understand the mind that created it.
He’d grown up surrounded by nannies and endless luxury, the kind of life most people would kill for.
But all he had ever wanted was his parents’ attention.
Their love had always come in the form of checks and material gifts.
Dex had been expected to step into the family business, a web of high-end political lobbying and corporate influence that he privately called “licking the boots of politicians in designer suits.”
“I’ve been struggling lately,” he admitted as the bar started to empty around us.
“The art world is brutal if you don’t have connections.
Some days I wonder if I made the right choice, if I should have just joined the family business.
But then I think, if I gave up now, I’d be proving them right. And I can’t do that.”
The vulnerability in his voice pulled at something in my chest. Here was someone who understood what it felt like to chase dreams that seemed impossible, to feel perpetually on the outside looking in. Someone who wasn’t afraid to admit that success didn’t come easily.
“Don’t give up,” I said, meaning it. “The world needs people who see things differently, who can show the rest of us beauty we might otherwise miss.”
He looked at me as though I’d said something profound instead of simply being encouraging. “You really believe that?”
“I do.”
“Most people think art is frivolous. Especially commercial marketing people.”
I laughed not because it was funny but because it was true. “Most commercial marketing people forget that what we do is supposed to be creative, too. We’re just selling different dreams.”