Chapter 16

I didn’t wait for the elevator this time I took the stairs, each step louder than the last, like maybe the noise could drown out the breaking sound inside my chest.

By the time I reached the sidewalk, the cold air bit at my skin, but it still didn’t numb me more than what I had just overheard inside that cursed building.

Matteo and Isabelle moaning behind that door like nothing else mattered, like I had never existed, like I hadn’t been in that very room wrapped in him days ago.

I climbed into the first cab I saw, slamming the door harder than I meant to, giving Mia’s address in a voice I barely recognized as my own.

The driver didn’t speak, thank God just nodded and turned on some soft jazz, which only made the pain sharper, like I was trapped inside a memory montage.

Every traffic light we passed felt like time mocking me, stretching out my shame second by second as my reflection in the window stared back with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Mia opened the door the moment I knocked, her robe still on, hair tied up, eyes scanning me like she already knew this wasn’t just a social visit.

Without a word, she pulled me in, wrapped her arms around me, and let me cry not the quiet, cinematic kind, but the ugly, shaking kind that cracks ribs open.

I told her everything in pieces starting with the coffee stunt, ending with Isabelle’s voice behind the door, rising in pleasure while Matteo said nothing at all.

Mia didn’t interrupt, didn’t rush me just handed me tissues, let me break, and said nothing except the occasional whispered “Oh my God” as the story spilled out.

When I finally ran out of breath, she stood, walked to the kitchen, and returned with a glass of something golden that burned and warmed all at once.

“Tequila,” she said simply. “For emergencies, heartbreaks, and billionaire bastards who think they own the universe and everyone in it.”

I took the glass without speaking, gulped half of it in one go, and coughed violently but it didn’t stop the fire in my chest from burning anyway.

“I feel like a joke,” I whispered, fingers clenched tight around the glass like it could anchor me to something that made sense in this spinning, cruel world.

Mia sat beside me again, took my free hand, and looked me straight in the eyes with the calm fury only your best friend can wield on your behalf.

“You are not a joke,” she said. “You are a brilliant, beautiful, underpaid woman with a heart ten times too big for that walking Armani disaster to appreciate.”

I laughed a little, but it cracked on the way out, because no matter how many compliments she gave, I still felt like a war zone in a dress.

“He didn’t even try to explain,” I said. “Just let her take him, like I wasn’t sitting twenty feet away, breaking into pieces he didn’t care about.”

“He’s not the story anymore,” Mia said firmly. “You are. So tonight, we take tequila and remind ourselves that women like us rise, even when the world tries to bury us.”

I raised my glass again, this time with less shaking, and let the second sip carry the last of my pride somewhere deep enough to silence my racing thoughts.

After a quick shower and one of Mia’s little black dresses, I stood by her mirror wondering how someone so wrecked could look so composed, like a storm hiding under mascara.

Mia changed too tighter jeans, blood-red lipstick, and the fire of a woman ready to burn down any man who tried to call her too much or too dramatic.

We headed to a bar neither of us had ever tried before a hole in the wall that pulsed with neon and bass, hidden behind a bookstore with a secret back entrance.

Inside, the music swallowed my thoughts, the tequila flowed like absolution, and for a while, the past two weeks faded into a blur of laughter and sharp citrus salt.

At some point, Mia danced on a table, dared three men to do a round of shots with her, and pulled me onto the floor like it was our rebirth ceremony.

I lost count of the songs, the drinks, the number of times strangers told me to smile more, and Mia threatened to ruin their lives with just a look.

But even as I spun and smiled and played along, I still felt it the hollow ache where Matteo had been, the ghost of a future I’d already started mourning.

Somewhere between tequila number five and the bathroom line, I saw my reflection again and this time, I didn’t look broken, I looked dangerous.

It hit me then.

The gala was two months away. Two months to heal, to rise, to play the perfect assistant one last time before I walked away with everything intact.

I wouldn’t let Matteo destroy me. Wouldn’t let Isabelle rewrite my story. Wouldn’t let anyone think I had been conquered when I was only preparing to conquer.

I turned back to Mia, who was now arguing with a bartender about feminist cocktails, and raised my glass again, this time not to forget but to declare war.

Because the girl they tried to break was gone.

And the woman walking into that gala?

She would be unforgettable.

I was past tipsy.

I was tequila-wasted, falling over my heels, clinging to Mia’s arm like she was the only stable thing left in a world full of bad decisions.

“Miaaaaa,” I slurred, dragging the syllables out like a forgotten song. “Why’s the room… doing circles?”

“That’s your liver begging for mercy,” she muttered, looping my arm around her shoulder. “Time to go, soldier. You’ve done enough damage to your dignity for one night.”

The bar pulsed with music, lights flickering like distant lightning, and I laughed at nothing as Mia dragged me toward the exit.

Then we saw him.

Someone pushing through the crowd, tall and familiar in a gray jacket and dark jeans, his eyes scanning the crowd like he was searching for something or someone.

“Some dude’s making a beeline,” Mia said, squinting. “Probably just some freak who thinks drunk girls are easier targets.”

But I squinted too.

My vision spun, but I knew that face. I knew that jawline, that soft worried frown.

“Ryyyyyyaaaan,” I burped, clinging to Mia harder, nearly falling over. “It’s myyyyy Ry-Ry.”

The alcohol on my breath could’ve stripped paint.

Mia paused. “Wait… what?”

Ryan reached us in seconds, eyes wide with relief and concern.

“Sarah?” he asked, gently prying me away from Mia. “Are you okay?”

Mia stepped between us like a bodyguard. “Hold on. Who the hell are you, tequila whisperer?”

“Ryan,” he said, calm and steady. “We work together. She’s my friend.”

“She’s hammered,” Mia said flatly. “And I don’t care if you’re her fairy godmother you touch her wrong, I’ll make you regret ever being born.”

I giggled into Ryan’s chest. “She’s scaaaary when she’s mad.”

Ryan looked at Mia, serious now. “I’m not here to hurt her. I’m here to help.”

Mia hesitated.

Then, with a sigh, she nodded.

“Fine,” she said. “She knows you. You’re officially allowed to carry her shoes.”

Ryan smiled, gently scooping me into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And somehow, even drunk out of my mind… I felt safe.

The taxi ride to Mia’s place was a blur of neon lights and muffled laughter. I lay with my head on Ryan’s shoulder in the back seat, one shoe missing, my lipstick long gone.

“I feel like a really dramatic movie,” I mumbled. “Like the kind with subtitles… and betrayal… and extra cheese.”

Mia snorted from the front seat. “You’re a one-woman telenovela.”

“She’s not wrong,” Ryan added softly, adjusting the jacket he’d wrapped around me.

It smelled like cedar and mint. It smelled safe.

_

By the time we reached Mia’s building, I could barely keep my eyes open. But I refused to let Ryan carry me again.

“I’m a grown woman,” I declared, wobbling on the curb. “I can walk.”

“You’re walking like a giraffe on roller skates,” Mia muttered, slipping an arm around me again.

Inside the apartment, Ryan helped me to the couch while Mia grabbed water and painkillers.

“Careful,” he said, settling me gently into the cushions. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

I squinted up at him. “You’re… annoyingly nice, you know that?”

He smiled, tucking a stray curl behind my ear. “Get some sleep, hurricane.”

And just like that, with Mia beside me and Ryan watching over me… I did.

***

The pounding in my head came before my eyes even opened.

I woke up with my mouth feeling like I’d swallowed the Sahara Desert and my head pounding like it had been personally assaulted by a mariachi band.

My eyes fluttered open to soft morning light filtering through Mia’s gauzy living room curtains. I was still wrapped in the same blanket Ryan had tucked around me, one of my shoes on the floor, the other mysteriously missing.

I sat up slowly, wincing as the motion sent a sharp pulse to the base of my skull. My stomach grumbled aggressively. Great. Tequila hangover plus starvation? Fantastic combo.

And then blessedly I caught it. The scent.

Bacon.

The unmistakable, holy fragrance of sizzling bacon.

I stumbled to my feet and followed the smell into the kitchen, where Mia stood barefoot in an oversized sweater, flipping pancakes like she was hosting a brunch special for brokenhearted women.

She glanced over her shoulder, smirking. “Look who’s risen from the dead.”

I squinted at her. “Please tell me that’s not vegan.”

She gestured with the spatula. “Real bacon. I figured emotional destruction calls for full-fat breakfast therapy.”

“I might marry you,” I croaked, pulling out a stool.

“You already tried last night, right after burping in Ryan’s face and calling him your ‘emotional teddy bear.’”

I buried my face in my hands. “Oh God.” 

“Oh yes,” she said gleefully. “You serenaded him with a slurred remix of ‘Shallow’ from A Star Is Born. You also cried because his shirt ‘smelled like comfort and betrayal.’”

“Why didn’t you stop me?” I moaned.

“I did! You told me to let you live your truth.” She dropped a pancake onto a plate. “Ryan, to his eternal credit, looked more amused than terrified.”

I peeked out from between my fingers. “He stayed?”

“Carried you like a bridal princess to the cab. Waited while I unlocked the door. Made sure you had water on the nightstand.” She paused. “He even tucked you in.”

Silence.

My heart sank like a stone into my tequila-wrecked stomach.

“How the hell am I supposed to look him in the eye at work?”

Mia raised an eyebrow. “With sunglasses, confidence, and a conveniently selective memory.”

“Do you think he’ll ever let me live it down?”

“He might,” she said. “But I won’t.”

I groaned again, but when she slid the plate of pancakes and bacon in front of me, I was too weak to argue.

Still, between bites, I kept replaying it all.

The bar. The laughter. Ryan’s hands were steadying me. My face tucked against his chest like it belonged there.

And later today?

I’d have to walk into that office.

And pretend I didn’t call him “Ry-Ry” in front of an entire bar.

God. Ryan.

I groaned.

Not because I regretted letting loose but because I couldn’t remember where my dignity had gone.

God help me.

I shoved a piece of bacon into my mouth like it might absorb my shame, but no amount of salt and grease could quiet the dread curling in my stomach.

Mia watched me from across the counter, a mug of coffee cradled in her hands, one brow raised in amusement. “You’ve gone quiet. That’s never a good sign.”

I groaned. “I’m trying to calculate how many minutes I can spend hiding in the break room today without raising suspicion.”

“Or,” she offered, “you could just say thank you to Ryan like a grown adult and move on with your life.”

“That would require facing him. After I burped his name like a drunk Disney character.”

Mia grinned. “You called him Prince Ry-Ry at one point.”

I choked on my coffee.

“Relax,” she said through her laughter. “He likes you. No man babysits a tequila-drenched woman and smiles through it unless he cares.”

My heart gave a traitorous little flutter.

Cares?

I looked down at my plate and muttered, “He shouldn’t.”

But deep down, I already knew the truth: Ryan had seen me at my absolute worst.

And somehow, that made him even harder to forget.