The Placeholder (Something Better #2)

Prologue

DELLA

The weight of Jared’s absence hangs around my neck like the heirloom necklace I can’t afford to lose but hate wearing. I adjust it one more time before pushing through the door of Luciano’s, the scent of garlic and warm bread enveloping me like a hug I desperately need.

“Della! You made it!” Betsy’s voice carries across the intimate restaurant, her diamond catching the light as she waves. Six months. Six months and she’s wearing a rock that makes my heart twist with something I refuse to call envy.

I paste on my best marketing executive smile—the one that’s closed countless deals—and make my way toward the private dining area where champagne glasses already sparkle under soft lighting.

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” I say, embracing her tightly, breathing in her familiar vanilla perfume. “You look radiant.”

Where’s Jared?” Conor asks, his arm protectively curved around Betsy’s waist, fingers splayed possessively against the midnight blue silk of her dress, thumb absently tracing small circles on her hip in that casual way that screams ‘we belong together.’

I feel the phantom weight of an arm that should be around my own waist, the ghost of warmth that never materializes at these gatherings anymore.

My emerald dress—the one Jared once said brought out my eyes—suddenly feels too tight across my ribs.

“Stomach bug,” I lie smoothly, the words practiced on the Uber ride over, rehearsed between traffic lights while I fixed my mascara.

“He’s absolutely devastated to miss it.”

Liana catches my eye from across the table, her gaze lingering a beat too long on my face.

The slight furrow between her perfectly arched brows says everything words can’t.

She knows. Of course, she knows. She was there last time, holding my hair back.

In contrast, I vomited cheap wine and heartbreak into her designer bathroom after finding those text messages on his phone—the ones where he called another woman “breathtaking” when he hadn’t complimented me in months.

“Well, more wine for us then,” she says, mercifully changing the subject as she pulls out the chair beside her, the legs scraping against the polished hardwood floor.

“I saved you a seat.” Her manicured fingers tap the crisp white tablecloth twice—our silent code since college for ‘we’ll talk later. ’

The evening unfolds in a blur of crystal clinking against crystal, champagne bubbles that tickle my nose but fail to lighten my mood.

I say all the right things, laugh at all the right moments, my lips stretched so wide my cheeks ache with the effort.

My marketing brain catalogs every detail of Betty’s happiness—the way Conor’s thumb never stops touching some part of her, how she leans into him without thinking—all stored for later examination when I’m alone in the bed Jared and I share but rarely occupy together anymore.

Liana leans in during dessert, her spicy perfume cutting through the scent of tiramisu. “What about a getaway? Just us girls. Somewhere with beaches and cocktails. The Hamptons? Mexico?”

"God, yes,” I say, forcing brightness into my voice while my chest tightens. I picture Jared’s phone lighting up in our dark bedroom. I see unknown names and hearts in his contacts. I hear his voice: “It meant nothing, I swear, it’ll never happen again”

“Let me look at my schedule,” I murmur, mentally drafting the excuses I’ll use later.

Conor rises, champagne glass in hand. “A toast,” he announces, his eyes never leaving Betsy. “To finding the person who makes everything else fade away.” His voice softens. “When it’s right, you know it. You just know.”

The crystal stem nearly snaps between my fingers. Seven years. Seven years, and I’m still waiting for Jared to look at me that way.

I reach for my clutch. “I should go,” I whisper to Liana.

She studies my face. “Everything alright?”

"Absolutely,” I say, lips curved upward. “Just tired. Tonight was lovely.”

I make my rounds, hugging everyone, and promise Betsy we’ll have lunch next week to discuss wedding details. My smile never falters, even as the Uber pulls away from the curb, carrying me back to an apartment where Jared is probably sprawled on our couch, miraculously recovered from his “illness.”

As I expect, the only sound that welcomes me home is the unmistakable electronic gunfire and explosions bleeding from the living room.

I pause in the entryway, my heels dangling from my fingertips as I strain to listen.

Male laughter—Jared’s distinctive snort followed by a deeper chuckle I recognize as his friend, Henry’s—floats through the air, punctuating the violent soundtrack of whatever game has miraculously cured my boyfriend’s “stomach bug.”

I should announce myself. Should storm in, righteous anger burning away the hurt. Instead, I set my shoes down with exaggerated care and pad across the hardwood in bare feet, the emerald silk of my dress whispering against my thighs.

“Dude, another round?” Henry’s voice grows clearer as I approach.

“Hell yeah. I’m on a streak tonight,” Jared replies, his voice vibrant with energy I haven’t heard directed at me in months.

I hover in the hallway, just out of sight, my fingertips pressed against the cool wall. The scent of pizza and beer hangs in the air—a far cry from the illness-induced tea and saltines I’d imagined him consuming in my absence.

“So when are you gonna lock it down with Della?” Henry asks casually, the question hitting me like a physical blow. “Seven years is a long-ass time. She’s gorgeous, successful... what’s the holdup?”

The silence that follows stretches just long enough to make my stomach clench. I press my palm against my mouth, willing myself to walk away, to preserve the fragile architecture of denial I’ve been constructing for years.

“Honestly?" Jared’s voice drops to what he believes is a whisper. "I don’t think she’s the one, man.”

The air leaves my lungs in a silent rush. My knees threaten to buckle, but I remain frozen, masochistically needing to hear more.

“You serious? After seven years? Are you insane?"

“I just think... I don’t know. There might be someone better out there. Someone younger, hotter.”

The controller buttons click rapidly as my world implodes quietly in the hallway.

Henry scoffs. “Dude, Della’s only twenty-eight. And way hotter than you deserve, by the way."

“Yeah, but—"

“If you’re not sure after seven years, why are you still with her?”

The question I’ve been asking myself for years, now voiced by someone else. I hold my breath, waiting.

“She’s good for now,” Jared says with a casualness that slices through me. “And this place? The brownstone is hers. Way better than anything I could afford on my own. If something better doesn’t come around in the next couple of years, I’ll reevaluate.”

I back away silently, each word a shard of glass embedding itself in my chest. The stairs creak beneath my weight as I climb them, one hand trailing along the banister for support, the other clutching my heart through the emerald fabric. My vision blurs, hot tears threatening to spill over.

In our bedroom—my bedroom, I correct myself bitterly—I sink onto the edge of the mattress. The sheets still bear the indentation where Jared supposedly lay sick all day. The nightstand holds an empty Gatorade bottle, a prop in his elaborate performance of illness.

I don’t allow myself to sob. Instead, I sit perfectly still as tears track silently down my cheeks, ruining the makeup I’d so carefully applied for Betsy’s celebration. Seven years reduced to “good for now.” Seven years of supporting his dreams while he waited for someone “better.”

My phone buzzes in my clutch. Liana is checking in, no doubt. I can’t bring myself to look. Instead, I slip out of my dress, hanging it carefully in the closet beside the other beautiful things I’ve bought to please a man who sees me as temporary housing.

In the bathroom, I scrub away my tears along with my mascara, staring at my reflection. Blue eyes rimmed in red. Twenty-eight and apparently past my prime, according to the man sleeping in my bed, eating my food, living in my home.

I change into silk pajamas—another expensive gift to myself that Jared has never noticed—and slide between the sheets on my side of the bed. Tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow I’ll figure out what to do. Tonight, I’ll lie here and mourn the death of something I should have buried years ago.

Downstairs, the video game continues, gunfire and laughter floating up through the floorboards like ghosts. I turn my face into the pillow and close my eyes, wishing I could unhear the truth that has finally shattered the beautiful lie I’ve been telling myself.