Chapter 2
I stare at the bathroom mirror with pupils blown.
Adrenaline, dopamine—the chemical shot your body fires when everything shifts in an instant.
I should have checked his socials, prepare myself. I didn't. Not because I'm a sociopath or didn't care, but because I'm a coward. And twofold when it comes to him.
Why is he back? And out of all the buildings in San Francisco, he had to choose mine? What kind of twisted fate is that?
Maybe he really didn't know. I mean, how could he?
Still, the drama queen in me wants to believe he flew across the country for me.
The teenager in me wants to run upstairs and yell at him to get out.
The self-destructive part fears what I'd do if he opened the door.
"Fuck," I mutter against the mirror. Heat crawls up my neck in an apartment I always complain is too cold.
My head spins back to the few glances I stole, replaying him in front of me to remind me he was real.
I need to do something.
Cleaning? My mother used to say dust and feelings could be swiped with the same cloth.
So I scrub, alphabetize the bookshelf, vacuum, then rearrange the bookshelf by color. Turn the crystal vase we got as a wedding gift because it has a hair crack that would drive Richard crazy. And maybe because some flaws are better left hidden.
By the end, I think I've wiped away my own fingerprints. Even thought about erasing my memories too, but honestly? I wouldn't.
It's the kind of crazy everyone knows—there's always that one person who takes you to hell, and still, you'd choose them again because hell's just a breath away from heaven.
And Ben's definitely been my inferno.
Next discovery is a rolled-up rug in the closet. I hid it as soon as I got it because my mother said it was "unsuitable" for Richard's curated aesthetic.
I roll it out. Wild green and mustard splashes on the grey floor, like a meadow interrupting a board meeting.
Something tells me I should roll it back.
I don't.
When I collapse at my desk, my screen glares back.
And then, for the first time in weeks, something finally comes. Not the story I wanted to write, just this: Once, there was a very special person in my life. Dangerous, too.
Not because he'd lie or cheat or intentionally hurt, but because the world was always a little dimmer next to him.
Men like him are easily misread, and more so unforgettable. They blur the line between no and yes and maybe-just-this-once.
And when they leave—because they always do—they break your heart clean open and burn everything you thought you needed to survive.
But they also leave you braver—brave enough to admit that sometimes, the only way to find yourself is through the wreckage.
I sit with it.
This isn't fiction. This feels like excavation.
With a neurotic thud, I finish: Be careful what you wish for. I'm so, so screwed!
The front door clicks.
Richard's home surprisingly early. He never comes home before five.
He's on the phone, laughing politely. "I told Father not to bother with that legal clutter at his age.
.. So the Petersons aren't invited anymore?
I knew that divorce was a matter of time.
.. Yes I saw your new Italian fountain, isn't it a bit too big, though?
... No, my elbow still hurts... I know, I know, but I love billiards.
.. Sure, we miss you too. I'll tell her. Bye, Elaine."
Elaine is Richard's mother. He calls her by her first name out of custom, not affection.
She's been more of a figurehead he'd glimpsed between charity galas in those two months when he wasn't at boarding school.
Of course, he'd never dare call his father William—or God forbid, Bill—that would imply equality, not dynasty where sentiment is smoothed over with expensive scotch.
"Em?"
"Here!" I sing out, trained to be cheery whenever he walks in. Not that he ever asked me, I just do it—don't really know why.
Richard appears in the doorway of my office, crisp in his navy suit. The color always makes his blond hair stand out.
He is very handsome.
I'm not into blonde men but he has that classic Guy Madison look, you know. It gets me every time.
He turns his head, eyes dropping to the rug. "What's this?"
No Hi or How was your day. He must hate it.
I recline in my chair, aiming for breezy. "Just testing it out. What do you think?"
He studies it, his face showing disapproval before he even speaks. "Not loving it, to be honest. Where did it come from?"
"Found it while cleaning. It's the one I brought back with Lucy from Marrakech."
"Oh." His tone's flat.
Richard's not a fan of my wild-child bestie Lucy. Now that I've "leveled up," I should use my access to the crème de la crème and not bother with someone so vulgar—his words, not mine.
"Speaking of purchases," he adds. "I spoke to your mother today."
I sit back up too fast. "Why do I feel like I'm in trouble?" I kind of joke, kind of don't.
"Not this time." He grins, amused by my sudden anxiety and loosens his tie. "Remember that bronze horse sculpture she admired at my parents' chalet last Christmas? I commissioned one for her. They'll deliver it next week."
"Richard! That's so sweet!" I rush to kiss him.
"I know." He flashes that self-pleased smirk, eyes drifting back to the rug. "Any particular reason for the redecorating?"
"No. Just felt like a change," I lie, bracing for him to tell me it doesn't fit our house but he just raises a dubious brow and disappears into the kitchen.
"Did you eat?" he asks, already rummaging in the jar of low-calorie cookies I bake him every weekend.
"Yeah," I lie again, realizing I haven't eaten all day. Again. Can't even remember the last time I felt actual hunger.
When I follow him, he's standing by the counter crunching a cookie, eyes glued to his phone.
I hate when he brings work home.
I get it, being an investment banker eats people alive, but I've asked him, more than once, to draw a line somewhere. Guess not.
"The dress came, by the way. For tonight." I lean against the kitchen island watching him from the side. "But you should give Jessica better tasks."
"I thought women would love to be paid for shopping?" He smirks but doesn't look up.
I smirk too. "Yeah, right. Poor girl's got an MBA from Stanford and shops for me like I'm a five-year-old."
He snorts a laugh into his phone and grabs another cookie, dismissing it.
"The dress is beautiful. Chanel. Black. But everyone's crazy about the cherry red now," I start and watch his face instantly sour.
"You know I hate red."
"It's trending."
"Still obnoxious."
I don't agree, but don't say anything, because there's no point.
"Any progress on the new book?" he asks, checking his e-mails.
Mentally, I flash back to what I wrote earlier.
The cheating narrative? Gone. Scratched the second my past moved above me.
"A little. Nothing worth talking about yet."
"Mom said her neighbor—you know, the one who wrote five best-sellers—she'd be willing to ghostwrite."
My jaw ticks. It's the second time he's floated this idea.
My writing career isn't about having a label stuck to my name—it's about stories that burn holes in my brain if I don't let them out.
"We can pay her whatever she—" He stops cold when he sees my face go nuclear. Hands up, mock surrender.
I brush past him, reach for a glass and drown it in water, letting it run longer than I have to because the sound calms me down—helps forget my husband doesn't believe in me.
Richard pulls me into a tight hug from behind, landing apologetic kisses on my cheek before he flips me over to him. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm just trying to help you how I can."
A sigh. "I know." Richard's love language is gifts, so he probably does mean well.
He sets the cookie on the counter and pulls me even closer to give me the usual lip-to-lip peck on my lips he does when he's apologizing. Not the most sensual kiss, but it's kind of sweet.
Today, though, his hand slides down my back, and the kiss lingers.
I let it happen before my body stiffens, my mind reminding me who just became my neighbor.
No. Not good, Emma.
Internally, I shake him off from my head and pull Richard closer. I love him, and want him. Of course, I want him. More, I need him. He's been very busy and we haven't done anything in a while. So I let him trail kisses along my jaw, my collarbone, then back on my mouth.
"You're so beautiful," Richard says, his hand gripping my waist as I wrap my leg around him. "Stunning. You're absolutely stunning."
His hips press me against the kitchen island and I lean in, losing myself in his hand tracing my dress, my fingers unbuttoning his pristine shirt, exposing his chest, then working his belt when suddenly—
The sharp ring of his phone cuts through the steam, right behind my ear.
I stop cold, giving him an annoyed look, and mutter, "Every damn time."
He freezes, and I think he's going to take it, like he always does, but then he doesn't.
Instead, he puts my hands back on his belt, wanting me to unfasten it.
I open the buckle, but the damn phone keeps ringing.
Grunting, Richard grabs it to silence it, but the second his eyes fall on the name, he winces.
"Damn it. I'm sorry, Em. I really have to take this one," he says, and before I can protest, he's already picked up and I hear him say "Hello, this is Richard Lawson," in that professional tone that doesn't give away what he wanted to do to me just a second ago.
He turns in the living room, meeting my eyes with an apology, but I don't care.
I turn around, my face flat, and smooth down my clothes as he disappears into his office, into whatever calls him away.
An hour later, I'm in the kitchen, skimming some artsy magazine Lucy left behind, but I'm not really reading. My mind keeps wandering back to Ben.
He was the one who read my first pieces of writing. Came over to my ex's house and instead of joining the guys playing NBA he ended up in front of my laptop.