Chapter 31 Elizabeth
ELIZABETH
Vanessa hadn’t fired me from the PR firm.
I thought she might. After Sophie blew up the wedding, after the headlines rolled in, after Logan walked off that altar with heartbreak in his eyes, I thought I’d come back to New York and find a security badge that didn’t work and a meeting with HR on my calendar.
But no.
Vanessa kept me on. Of course she did. The PR spin I had orchestrated in under twenty-four hours had been, in her words, “ruthless and brilliant.”
Clients ate it up. So did the media. Logan went from “left-at-the-altar” punchline to sympathetic heartthrob, and our firm got more buzz than it had in a year.
Vanessa even smiled when I walked into the office after returning from New Orleans. A real smile. Brief. Shark-like. “Nicely done. Though next time, let’s try to keep the runaway ex out of the client deliverables, shall we?”
Then she turned back to her computer because she hadn’t realized that my personal life had been detonated on national television.
And that was it. Back to work. Back to pretending it hadn’t gutted me.
I had been drowning ever since.
My calendar was wall-to-wall meetings. My inbox refreshed faster than I could clear it.
On paper, I was killing it. In reality? I was exhausted. And brittle. And numb in ways I hadn’t known a person could be.
The worst part was how easy it had become to pretend. A smile. A sharp comment in a pitch meeting. A new suit. Better lipstick. Everything glossy. No one saw the cracks unless I wanted them to be seen.
And I never wanted them to be seen.
It was nearly midnight when I got home one night. It was a month after the wedding-that-wasn’t. The building was quiet.
I dropped my keys on the kitchen counter, kicked off my heels, and poured myself a glass of wine without turning on the lights.
The apartment looked ready for a photo shoot.
It was immaculate, perfectly arranged, and utterly lifeless.
I used to crave that kind of perfection.
Now it just felt like I was living in someone else’s story.
I took the wine to the window and stared out at the skyline. The city looked exactly the way I had always wanted my life to feel—structured and brilliant.
I didn’t feel either of those things. I felt tired and hollow.
However, if anyone asked, I’d still say I was fine. That everything was going according to plan. In the world’s eyes, I’d won. I’d salvaged the disaster, saved the firm, kept my job, and earned a bonus. I had proven I could stay composed in the face of chaos.
But the truth? The truth was, I hadn’t felt like myself since New Orleans.
After a few minutes, I set the wine glass down and walked to my bedroom. I wanted to do something other than stand still and fall apart.
I opened the top drawer of my nightstand, looking for Chapstick.
Instead, my hand brushed against something small. I pulled it out and froze.
A matchbook. From that little jazz bar in New Orleans. The one Logan had loved. The one where we’d ordered dirty martinis and he’d made me laugh so hard I snorted in front of a trumpet player.
I stared at it for a long time. Then I sat down on the edge of my bed and let myself remember the last time I had seen him.
The way he had looked at me. As if he were choosing me with his whole heart. Like he was terrified and brave all at once. And the way I hadn’t chosen him back. Instead, I turned around and managed the damage. Contained the mess.
Because that was what I did, right? I held it together. I kept the plates spinning. I built something no one could tear down.
But sitting there in my pristine apartment, holding a matchbook from a city that had felt more like home than this place ever had, I couldn’t ignore it anymore:
I was in control. I had everything I used to want.
And I was miserable.
I hadn’t chosen love. I had chosen fear. And now I was living with it every single day.