CHAPTER 1

MAYA POV

The red velvet cupcake box was heavy in my hands, a tiny gold "3" candle tucked inside my pocket. I had practiced the speech a dozen times in the elevator. Three years, Derek. We made it.

I used my spare key, moving quietly to surprise him. The apartment was dim, but a trail of clothes led toward the bedroom. My heart did a weird, hopeful flutter—maybe he had a surprise for me, too.

Then I heard the laugh. It wasn’t Derek’s. It was high-pitched, breathless, and hauntingly familiar.

I stood in the doorway, the box slipping from my fingers. It hit the floor with a dull thud, the frosting smearing against the hardwood.

Derek bolted upright, his face turning a sickly shade of white. Beside him, Chloe—my roommate, my best friend—scrambled to pull the duvet over her chest.

"Maya? You’re supposed to be at the office until eight," Derek stammered. He didn't even have the grace to look ashamed, just caught.

I looked at Chloe. She wouldn't meet my eyes. "Is this why you couldn't make it to lunch today? A headache?"

"Maya, listen—" Chloe started.

"Don't," I cut her off. My voice was surprisingly steady. "Just don't."

I didn't grab a suitcase. I didn't scream. I just turned around and walked back out the door.

The Onyx was the kind of place where the air smelled like expensive cigars and desperation. I sat at the far end of the bar, staring at the amber liquid in my glass.

"Another one," I told the bartender.

"You’ve had three, miss," he said, wiping the counter. "Maybe some water?"

"I’m paying for gin, not a lecture."

A low, amused chuckle came from the stool next to mine. I hadn't even noticed someone was sitting there. I turned my head slowly.

The man was wearing a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my college tuition. He was leaning back, one hand wrapped around a glass of neat whiskey. His hair was dark, pushed back carelessly, and his eyes were fixed on mine.

"You look like you're planning a murder," he said. His voice was deep, like a low vibration that I felt in my chest.

"Just a funeral," I replied. I took a sip of my drink, the burn hitting my throat. "For my old life."

He raised an eyebrow, shifting his weight toward me. "Is it dead yet?"

"I’m currently burying the body."

He signaled the bartender. "Put her next four on my tab. And bring a bottle of the 18-year-old Highland."

I looked at the bottle, then back at him. "I don't even know your name."

"Does it matter?" He leaned in closer. I could smell him now—cedarwood, expensive soap, and something metallic, like the air before a storm. "I’m just a stranger in a bar. And you’re a woman who needs to forget."

I looked at his mouth. It was set in a firm line, but there was a flicker of something—interest, maybe—in his gaze. "What if I don't want to forget? What if I just want to feel something else?"

"That can be arranged." He didn't move, but the air between us suddenly felt very thin.

"You're very confident," I noted, my pulse picking up speed.

"I’m observant. You’ve been staring at that glass for twenty minutes like it holds the answers to the universe. It doesn’t. It’s just cheap gin." He reached out, his thumb brushing against the back of my hand. His skin was hot. "The answer is usually much simpler."

I didn't pull away. After three years of Derek’s lukewarm affection, this man’s intensity felt like a match being struck in a dark room. "And what is the simple answer?"

He stood up, towering over me. He didn't offer his hand; he just waited. "My car is outside. Or you can stay here and keep talking to your gin."

I looked at the door, then back at his dark, expectant eyes. Derek was probably still in our bed. Chloe was probably still apologizing. I was done being the girl who played by the rules.

"The car sounds better," I said.

He led me out of the club, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. It wasn't a push; it was a claim. Outside, a sleek black sedan was idling at the curb. The driver stepped out and opened the door without a word.

The interior of the car was silent and cool. We sat close—close enough that our shoulders brushed with every turn the car took.

"Where are we going?" I asked as we sped through the city lights.

"My place," he said simply. He turned to look at me, his gaze sweeping over my face. "Last chance to change your mind, Maya."

I froze. "How do you know my name?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out my ID. "You dropped this at the bar when you were digging for your credit card." He handed it back, his fingers lingering against mine. "So? Do you want to go back to the funeral?"

I tucked the ID into my purse and looked out the window at the blurred lights of the bridge.

"Keep driving."