Chapter 3: The Morning After

Sunlight slices through my bedroom curtains like a knife.

I groan and reach for my phone to check the time, knocking over my water glass. It hits the floor with a dull thud. My head pounds. Not from drinking, I didn’t touch alcohol last night, but from crying myself to sleep.

My phone screen lights up.

8:47 AM.

And 47 missed calls.

I bolt upright, suddenly very awake. The number blinks at me accusingly. Forty seven. All from Ryan. Each one timestamped through the night, starting at 10:23 PM and ending at 6:15 this morning.

My stomach churns.

Below the call log, a string of text messages.

Ryan: “Zara please pick up”

Ryan: “You’re being ridiculous”

Ryan: “CALL ME”

Ryan: “Fine. Be childish.”

I delete them all without reading further. Each swipe feels like taking back a piece of myself.

My phone buzzes. Mia.

Mia: “GIRL. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to dump Ryan IN FRONT OF EVERYONE”

Mia: “I’m coming over. Coffee or something stronger?”

I stare at the messages. How does she know?

Mia runs a celebrity gossip blog. Anonymous, successful, posting under “SpillTheTeaNYC.” If she knows about last night, it’s already out there.

My phone rings. Mia’s face fills the screen.

I answer. “How bad is it?”

“On a scale of one to ten? Eight. Someone at the dinner posted about it. People are talking.”

I drop back onto my pillow. “Great. Perfect.”

“You didn’t post about it.”

“Of course not. You’re my best friend.” She pauses. “Now tell me everything because I’ve been losing my mind trying to piece it together.”

I close my eyes. “I overheard him. At the dinner. Telling his colleagues I was too ordinary to bring around. That I’d embarrass him.”

Silence. Then: “I’m going to kill him.”

“Get in line.”

“Zara.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I’m so sorry. But also, walking in there and dumping him in front of everyone? Iconic. I’m actually proud of you.”

A broken laugh escapes. “Yeah, well. It felt good for about five minutes.”

“What happened after?”

Adrian Knight’s words echo in my head. Don’t let anyone make you feel ordinary for expecting to be treated with basic respect.

“Someone reminded me I wasn’t the problem.”

“Good. Because you’re not. Ryan’s an idiot.” Mia’s tone turns brisk. “Now get up, get dressed. I’ll meet you at the studio with coffee in forty minutes.”

“Mia, I…”

“Not negotiable. See you soon.”

She hangs up before I can argue.

I drag myself into the shower, letting the hot water run over me until it starts to go cold. The three paycheck dress is still on my floor where I dropped it last night. I should hang it up. Instead, I step over it and get dressed in my usual work uniform: black jeans, soft sweater, boots.

-----

My design studio is small. Tucked between a bookstore and a coffee shop in Brooklyn, barely 400 square feet, but it’s mine. The walls are covered in fabric swatches, paint samples, mood boards for current projects. My desk sits in front of the large window, giving me a view of the street below.

The morning light filters through the front windows. Fabric samples scattered across my desk. The Morrison hotel project.

I should be finalizing the lobby design. Should be confirming furniture orders.

Instead, I’m staring at my email inbox.

Subject: Re: Morrison Hotel Project

My stomach drops before I even open it.

“Dear Ms. Bennett,

After careful consideration, we’ve decided to go in a different direction for the Morrison Hotel redesign.

Best regards,

James Morrison”

Different direction.

I read it twice, trying to make the words mean something else. The Morrison project was my biggest commission yet. Six months of work. A portfolio piece that could open doors to bigger clients, better projects.

Gone.

My phone buzzes. A text from a number I don’t recognize.

Unknown: “Heard about you and Carter. Sorry it didn’t work out. Just wanted to give you a heads up, some mutual clients are asking questions. Might want to get ahead of it. - Sarah K”

Sarah Klein. Another designer I’d met through Ryan. We’d collaborated on a few small projects.

My hands start shaking. I set the phone down carefully, like it might explode.

The studio door chimes. Mia sweeps in with two coffees and a bag from the bakery down the street. She takes one look at my face and sets everything down.

“What happened?”

I turn my laptop toward her. Show her the Morrison email. Show her Sarah’s text.

Mia’s expression hardens. “He’s spreading rumors.”

“What?”

“Ryan.” She pulls out her phone, typing rapidly. “Give me two minutes.”

I watch her scroll, her face getting progressively darker. Finally, she looks up.

“He’s telling people you were clingy. Desperate. That you showed up to his work event uninvited and made a scene when he tried to let you down easy.” She pauses. “He’s making you look unstable.”

The room tilts slightly. Or maybe that’s just me.

“My clients believe him.”

“Your clients don’t know the truth yet.” Mia’s jaw sets in that stubborn way that means she’s about to do something drastic. “But they will.”

“Mia, don’t. Your blog…”

“Is anonymous for a reason.” She’s already typing. “And this? This is news.”

“Don’t post about me. Please.”

She looks up, and I see the war in her eyes. Journalist versus best friend. Finally, she sets her phone down. “Fine. But you need to do something, Zara. You can’t just let him destroy your reputation.”

I stare at the Morrison email. At Sarah’s warning text. At the stack of unpaid invoices on my desk that were counting on this commission.

Ryan called me ordinary. Now he’s making sure everyone else thinks so too.

My phone buzzes one more time.

Unknown number: “Ms. Bennett, this is Victor Shaw, assistant to Adrian Knight. Mr. Knight would like to schedule a meeting at your earliest convenience. Please call to arrange. Matter is time sensitive.”

I read the message twice.

Adrian Knight wants to meet.

The same day Ryan’s rumors start destroying my career.

That can’t be a coincidence.