Chapter 1- I'll make the request

MIA

Thank God my shift is over.

My feet are screaming. My back is aching. And I'm pretty sure I have whiskey permanently embedded in my clothes. But it's done. Another double shift in the books. Another night of smiling at customers who don't see me, just a woman with a tray and a fake smile.

I pull my phone out of my apron pocket as I'm walking toward the back. It's 5:15 PM. The bar is still buzzing with the after-work crowd, but I'm free. Free to go home, collapse, and maybe eat something that isn't a stale pretzel.

There's an email notification. I almost swipe it away—probably spam, probably another bill I can't afford—but something makes me stop. My thumb hovers. The subject line catches my eye.

Kingston Business School - Your Application Decision

My heart stops.

I fumble with the phone, nearly dropping it. My hands are shaking. The screen is too bright. I blink, trying to focus. My finger taps the email and the screen loads.

Dear Mia Scofield,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the Master of Business Administration program at Kingston Business School for the upcoming fall semester.

Your academic record, personal statement, and letters of recommendation have impressed the admissions committee. We believe you will be an excellent addition to our community.

Please see the attached documents for further information regarding enrollment, tuition, and financial aid.

Congratulations on this achievement. We look forward to welcoming you to Kingston Business School.

Sincerely,

Admissions Committee

I read it once. Twice. Three times.

"Holy shit," I whisper.

Then I let out a scream. A loud, unhinged, desperate sound that echoes through the back hallway. Someone—a busboy I don't know—looks up from his stack of dirty dishes, startled. I slap my hand over my mouth, heat flooding my cheeks. I give him an apologetic wave.

"Sorry. Sorry. Just... good news."

He shrugs and goes back to work.

I do a silent happy dance right there in the hallway. My feet shuffle. My arms pump. My face is split in a grin so wide it hurts. I'm in. I actually got in. Me. Mia Scofield. The girl who's been scraping by on tips and instant noodles. I got into one of the best business schools in the city.

Justin. I need to tell Justin.

He's going to be so proud. He's been with me through all of this—the late nights studying, the panic attacks over applications, the times I wanted to give up. He held my hand and told me I could do it. This is our victory as much as it is mine.

And then Gram. I have to call Gram.

She's going to cry. She always cries when good things happen. She's going to hug me so tight and tell me my parents would be so proud. The thought makes my chest ache in the best way.

I'm still grinning as I walk toward the front of the bar. Charlotte is behind the counter, laughing at something one of the regulars said. Her blonde hair is wild, her smile is huge, and she looks like she's having the time of her life. She always does.

"Charlotte!" I call out.

She turns. "Mia! You're still here? Get out of here, girl. Go home and sleep."

"I got in," I say, the words spilling out. "Kingston. I got in."

Charlotte's eyes go wide. "No way. For real?"

I hold up my phone, the screen still bright with the acceptance letter. "For real."

"Scofield!" She's out from behind the counter in a second, wrapping me in a crushing hug. "You genius, you beautiful, brilliant genius! I'm so proud of you!"

I laugh, hugging her back. "I have to go tell Justin."

"Go. Go. Get out of here. We'll celebrate later. Drinks on me."

"You're the best," I say, already backing toward the door.

"I know!" she calls after me.

I reach the door, my hand on the handle, ready to burst out into the cold New York air. The door swings open before I can push it.

A man steps inside.

He's tall. Tall enough that I have to crane my neck. Dark hair that falls just slightly over his forehead. Sharp cheekbones. A jawline that could cut glass. He's wearing a perfectly tailored coat that probably costs more than my rent. His eyes—God, his eyes are unreal. Blue. Ice blue. The kind of blue that makes you think of glaciers or winter skies. Cold and beautiful.

He looks like every bad decision any red-blooded girl would take.

I step back to let him pass. He moves past me without a glance. Doesn't even register that I exist.

I watch him walk toward the bar. He sits in the corner. The same corner. Every Tuesday. At the same time. He always orders the same drink. Never talks to anyone. Just sits there like he's trying to disappear.

What's that about?

Doesn't matter. Not my problem.

He's hot, though. That's definitely my problem.

I push the thought away and step outside.

The cold hits me like a slap. It's late January in New York, and the city doesn't care about your feelings. The wind cuts through my thin jacket like it's made of paper. I pull my coat tighter and start walking. The streets are slick with old slush, and steam rises from manhole covers. Taxis honk. Someone yells something about a cab. A delivery guy on a bike almost hits a pedestrian. Just another Tuesday night in the city.

My apartment is close. I'm lucky that way. Ten minutes through the West Village, past the brownstones and the boutique shops that closed hours ago. I walk with purpose. My feet know the way. Left on Bleecker. Right on Sullivan. Past the bodega where I buy my coffee, the one with the cat that sits on the counter.

I can't stop smiling. The letter is still open on my phone. I keep glancing down at it, reading the words over and over. I got in. I got in.

Justin's going to be so happy. He's going to pick me up and spin me around. He always does that when something good happens. He's going to say, "I knew it, babe. I knew you could do it."

And Gram. I'm going to call her as soon as I walk through the door. She's probably watching her stories, wrapped in her ratty old blanket, missing me like she always does. She's going to be so proud. She's going to tell me my parents are smiling down at me.

The thought makes my chest warm even as my fingers go numb.

I reach my building. It's a walk-up, four stories, old and creaky. The paint is peeling. The buzzer is broken. The stairs smell like someone's cooking something—garlic, onions, something I can't place. It's not much. But it's mine.

I climb the stairs to the third floor. My legs are heavy. My feet hurt. But my heart is light.

I put the key in the lock. Turn it. Open the door.

The sound hits me first.

A noise. Familiar, but wrong. Moans. Groans. The unmistakable sounds of sex.

A woman's voice. High pitched. Breathless.

And beneath it, deeper. A man's voice. Justin's voice.

My brain takes a second to catch up. To make sense of what I'm hearing.

What the fuck?

Who is he fucking?

My feet move before I can think. Down the hallway. Past the kitchen. Past the living room. The sounds get louder. I follow them like a trail of breadcrumbs. The bedroom door is slightly ajar. Light spills through the crack, warm and yellow.

I push it open slowly. They don't notice me.

Justin is there. My Justin. The boy I've been with for two years. The boy who was my first everything.

He's behind a blonde girl. She's on her knees on the bed, holding the headboard. Justin has her hair fisted in his hand, forcing her head at an odd angle. His hips are slamming into her. He's balls deep.

They're not even trying to be quiet.

I stand in the doorway. I watch. I feel nothing. Then I feel everything. Then I feel nothing again.

I walk to the armchair in the corner. The one I always sit in when I'm reading. I sink into it, phone still in my hand. Arms crossed. Watching.

They keep going for a few more seconds. It feels like forever.

Justin's eyes drift to the chair. He freezes. His face goes pale.

"Jesus! Mia!"

He pulls out of the girl. She gasps, scrambling for the sheet. Her eyes are wide. She looks terrified. Good.

I don't move. I don't cry. I just sit there. Crossed arms. Phone in hand. Watching.

"Don't stop on my account," I say. My voice is flat. Cold. It doesn't sound like me. "He seems to be enjoying himself.”

I get up from the armchair.

Justin is scrambling off the bed, the sheet tangled around his legs. The blonde girl is trying to cover herself, her face red, her eyes darting everywhere.

"Mia, wait. Let me explain."

I wave a dismissive hand at him. My arm feels heavy. My whole body feels like it's moving through water.

"Don't," I say. "Carry on. You were enjoying yourself."

"Mia, please—"

But I'm already walking. Out of the bedroom. Down the hallway. Through the living room. My feet carry me forward. I don't look back.

The door closes behind me. I'm in the hallway. The stairs. The cold air outside.

I walk.

My legs move without me telling them. The streets blur. Buildings pass. People pass. The city hums around me, indifferent.

I should feel something. I should be crying. Screaming. Breaking things. That's what people do when they catch their boyfriend cheating.

But the tears don't come. They never do.

They didn't come when my parents died. They didn't come at the funeral. They didn't come when I watched their caskets lower into the ground. I was twelve years old, and I couldn't cry. I just stood there, empty, while Gram held me and sobbed.

I'm empty now. Hollow. Like someone scooped out all the feelings and left nothing behind.

I got into Kingston. I was so happy. So excited. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to share this moment with him. And instead, I walked in on him balls deep in some blonde girl.

The cold air hits my face. It's dark now. The streetlights are on. The city is glowing. I stop walking and look around. I'm near the bar. My bar. The one I just left.

I need a drink. I need to tell Charlotte.

The sign is lit. Warm amber light spills onto the sidewalk. I push the door open and walk inside.

The warmth hits me first. Then the noise. Laughter. Clinking glasses. Jazz playing low in the background. It feels like another world.

I make my way to the bar. Charlotte is behind it, laughing with a customer. She sees me and her face changes immediately. The smile drops. Her eyes narrow.

"Mia? What happened? You look... you look like someone died."

I slide onto a stool. "That bad?"

"Worse." She grabs a bottle. Not the cheap stuff. The strong stuff. She pours me a glass and pushes it toward me. "Drink that. Then tell me everything."

I pick up the glass and down it in one go. The whiskey burns my throat. It warms my chest. It doesn't fix anything. But it helps.

Charlotte leans on the bar, her arms crossed. "Spill."

I start talking. The words tumble out of me.

"Justin. I went home to tell him about Kingston. I got in, Charlotte. I actually got in. And I was so happy. I was floating. I couldn't wait to tell him. I walked in the door and I heard... I heard noises. Moaning. I thought maybe he was watching p**n or something. But no. He was in the bedroom. With some blonde girl. On our bed. He was fucking her, Charlotte. Right there. In our bed."

Charlotte's face goes dark. Her jaw tightens. "I'm going to kill him."

I let out a frustrated laugh. It sounds wrong. Bitter. Broken.

"There's no need. I'm better off anyway. I don't want anything to do with a cheating man. If he wants to stick his dick in someone else, fine. Good for him. He's her problem now."

"Mia, I'm serious. I'll kill him."

"You'll get arrested. And then I'll have to bail you out. I can barely afford ramen. Focus."

I tap the glass with my finger. "Can I get another one?"

Charlotte doesn't pour. She just stares at me.

My eyes drift over her shoulder. To the corner. The same corner. The same table. The same man.

He's reading a book. Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. Ice blue eyes that don't look up from the page. He's been here every Tuesday. Same time. Same table. Same drink.

What's his story? Is he running from something? Hiding from something?

Who cares. He's hot. That's all that matters right now.

Charlotte follows my gaze. "You don't need another drink. What you need is to live a little. Feel something. With someone who isn't a cheating piece of shit."

She takes my glass away. I reach for it, but she's faster.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She leans in close. Her voice is low. Serious. "It means you should have a rebound sex. A one-night stand. Just sex. No strings. No feelings. Just a good time with a hot guy."

I stare at her. Then I laugh. It comes out loud. Sharp. I can't help it.

"And where the fuck am I supposed to find a candidate for that? You want me to walk up to a random stranger and ask him to fuck me?"

Charlotte grins. She nods toward the corner. "There are plenty of men in here. Like that tall drink of water over there."

My eyes follow her gaze. Back to the corner. Back to the man with the book.

"Are you seriously suggesting I walk up to a customer and ask him to have sex with me?"

Charlotte looks at me. The question hangs in the air. She doesn't blink.

"Yes."

I think about it.

Justin. The betrayal. The emptiness. The way I felt nothing when I should have felt everything. The way I haven't felt anything in years.

I need to feel something. Anything.

I open my mouth to say no. But the word doesn't come out.

"One night," I say slowly. "Just one night of not thinking about my scumbag boyfriend. That would be... that would be something."

Charlotte grins. "That's the spirit."

I hold up my finger. "Give me one more drink. A real one. Something strong."

She pours. I don't even ask what it is. I take the glass. I chug it in one go. The burn is instant. My eyes water. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

I stand up.

"Here goes nothing."

I head toward his table.