CHAPTER 2: The Blame Game

The taxi smelled like cheap air freshener and someone's forgotten coffee. I pressed my forehead against the cool window and watched the city lights blur past.

My phone wouldn't stop buzzing.

Sarah had called three more times. Then she'd switched to texts.

SARAH: Bella answer your phone

SARAH: I'm getting worried

SARAH: If you don't respond in 5 minutes I'm calling the police

I typed out a quick response.

ME: I'm fine. Just need some space. I'll call you tomorrow.

The lie tasted bitter, but I couldn't deal with Sarah's concern right now. If I heard her voice—kind and sympathetic and everything I needed—I'd break down completely. And I wasn't ready to break down yet.

I wasn't ready to feel anything yet.

The numbness was better. Safer.

Another buzz. Not Sarah this time.

JAMES: You're being dramatic

I stared at the message. Dramatic. Three years of my life, and I was being dramatic.

Another message appeared before I could process the first.

JAMES: I told you what this was. You're the one who made it into something more

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Part of me wanted to type back something cutting, something that would hurt him the way he'd hurt me. But what was the point? James Sterling didn't have the emotional capacity to understand what he'd done wrong.

He probably never would.

A third message.

JAMES: Victoria said you looked pathetic standing there. She's right. You need to learn to have fun

I should have thrown my phone out the window right then. Instead, I made the mistake of scrolling up through our message history.

This morning, I'd sent him a heart emoji with "Happy anniversary baby."

He'd responded three hours later with "Thanks."

Just thanks.

How had I not seen it? How had I convinced myself that his cold responses meant he was busy, not disinterested? That his cancelations were about work, not about me?

Because you wanted to believe the fantasy, a small voice whispered in my head. You wanted to believe someone like James Sterling could love someone like you.

The taxi turned onto Fifth Avenue. The Sterling Hotel rose up ahead, all glass and steel and old money elegance. The kind of place where people like James felt at home.

People like me? We usually used the service entrance.

"Here we are, miss." The driver pulled up to the grand entrance where a doorman in an actual top hat stood ready to open car doors.

I handed over my credit card for the fare, then added a generous tip. If I was going to blow my emergency fund, I might as well do it properly.

The doorman opened my door. "Good evening, ma'am. Welcome to The Sterling Hotel."

Ma'am. I was twenty-four and already a ma'am. I wondered if that's when it happened—when you stopped being a girl with dreams and became a woman with regrets.

"Thank you," I managed, stepping out into the cool evening air.

The lobby was exactly what I expected. Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. The kind of quiet that only happened in places where everyone could afford to stay silent.

I felt distinctly out of place in my work clothes—a simple black dress that had seemed professional this morning but now felt cheap under these lights. My hair was probably a mess. My makeup was definitely smudged from crying in the taxi.

But nobody looked at me twice. That was the thing about expensive hotels—they were paid to pretend everyone belonged.

"Good evening." The woman behind the reception desk smiled professionally. "Do you have a reservation?"

"No, I—" I cleared my throat. "I'd like a room for tonight. Just one night."

"Certainly." Her fingers flew over her keyboard. "We have a deluxe room available for eight hundred and fifty dollars, or a junior suite for twelve hundred."

Eight hundred and fifty dollars. For one night. More than my monthly grocery budget.

I thought about James's apartment. About that champagne bottle I'd agonized over. About three years of making myself smaller.

"The suite," I heard myself say.

If the receptionist was surprised, she didn't show it. "Wonderful. May I have a credit card and ID please?"

The transaction went through. The plastic key card was handed over with directions to the elevators. And just like that, I had a place to stay that cost more than my first car.

"The hotel bar is just through there," the receptionist added, gesturing to an arched doorway where soft piano music drifted out. "If you'd like a drink before heading up."

A drink. Yes. That's exactly what I needed.

"Thank you."

I left my small overnight bag—hastily packed during a bathroom break at work this afternoon for the overnight surprise I'd planned—with the bellhop and headed toward the bar.

The Sterling Bar was dimly lit and sophisticated in a way that made me feel like I'd wandered into a movie set. Dark wood, leather chairs, a polished bar top that probably cost more than my entire apartment deposit. A piano player in the corner played something jazzy and melancholic.

There were only a handful of people scattered throughout. A couple in the corner, leaning close and laughing softly. An older businessman type nursing what looked like whiskey at the bar. And—

I stopped.

At the far end of the bar sat a man who made everyone else in the room disappear.

He was older—mid-forties, maybe—with dark hair touched with grey at the temples. Even sitting down, I could tell he was tall. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit with no tie, the top button of his white shirt undone. And he was handsome in a way that had nothing to do with youth or flash and everything to do with presence.

He was also staring into his glass of scotch like it held the answers to the universe.

I recognized that look. I'd probably worn it myself fifteen minutes ago.

Stop staring, I told myself. Sit down. Order a drink. Don't make eye contact with anyone.

I slid onto a barstool three seats away from him. Far enough to be respectful. Close enough that I could still see him in my peripheral vision.

"Good evening." The bartender appeared with a small menu. He was older, with kind eyes and the patient expression of someone who'd seen everything. "What can I get for you?"

I looked at the menu. Everything was expensive and complicated. Names I didn't recognize with ingredients I'd never heard of.

"What's good?" I asked finally.

"Depends." He leaned against the bar. "Rough day?"

Was it that obvious?

"You could say that."

"Then I recommend the French 75. Champagne, gin, lemon, sugar. Elegant but strong. Good for celebrating or forgetting."

Champagne. Of course. I almost laughed.

"Perfect. I'll take one."

He moved away to prepare the drink, and I pulled out my phone against my better judgment.

Five more messages from James.

JAMES: You'll come crawling back. You always do

JAMES: I'm keeping your stuff. You left, remember?

JAMES: Victoria wants to know if you left any clothes she can have

JAMES: No one else will want you Bella

JAMES: You're too boring. Too plain. Too poor.

Each message was a tiny knife. Not deep cuts—James wasn't capable of hurting me deeply anymore—but paper cuts. Death by a thousand small cruelties.

I blocked his number.

I should have done it the moment I walked out. Maybe I should have done it months ago. But better late than never.

"Your French 75." The bartender placed a coupe glass in front of me. The liquid was pale gold and effervescent, with a twist of lemon peel curled elegantly on top.

"Thank you."

I took a sip. It was perfect. Tart and sweet and strong enough to make my eyes water.

"Rough night?"

The voice came from my left. Deeper than I expected. Smooth.

I turned to find the handsome stranger watching me. Up close, he was even more striking. Sharp jaw. Intense grey-blue eyes. The kind of face that belonged on magazine covers or corner office nameplates.

"Is it that obvious?" I echoed the bartender's question.

A slight smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. "Only to someone who's had one too."

We looked at each other for a moment. Two strangers in an expensive bar, both running from something.

"Bad day at work?" I asked, surprising myself. I didn't usually talk to strange men in bars. Then again, I didn't usually find my boyfriend in bed with two women either.

"Something like that." He lifted his glass slightly. "You?"

"Something like that," I repeated.

The piano player switched to a new song. Something bluesy and sad. Perfect for the mood.

"I'm Alex," the stranger said.

Not Alexander. Just Alex. Like he was trying to be someone else tonight too.

"Isabella." I never introduced myself as Isabella. I was Bella. Always Bella. But tonight, Bella was the girl who got cheated on. Isabella could be someone new.

"Isabella." He said my name like he was tasting it. "Beautiful name."

"Thank you."

Silence settled between us. Not awkward. Comfortable, somehow. Like we'd both agreed that talking required too much energy.

I took another sip of my drink. Then another. The alcohol was working its way through my system, warming me from the inside out. Numbing the sharp edges of the last few hours.

"Can I ask you something, Isabella?" Alex's voice pulled me back.

"Sure."

"What brings someone like you to a hotel bar on a Tuesday night?"

Someone like me. I wondered what he saw. A young woman in a rumpled work dress. Smudged makeup. Sad eyes.

"Someone like me," I repeated. "What does that mean?"

"Someone who looks like they just made a decision."

The observation was so accurate it stole my breath.

"I did," I admitted. "I decided to stop being someone's second choice."

Alex studied me. "His loss."

"How do you know it was a him?"

"Lucky guess." He took a sip of his scotch. "Also, you've been trying not to look at your phone for the last five minutes. That's usually a sign someone's avoiding messages from someone they'd rather forget."

I laughed. Actually laughed. It felt strange. "You're observant."

"I'm old." He said it with a self-deprecating smile. "Comes with the territory."

"You're not that old."

"Forty-five." He said it like a confession. "Ancient by some standards."

Forty-five. Twenty-one years older than me. In another life—in my life this morning—that would have mattered. But tonight, in this bar, with this drink warming my blood, it didn't.

"Age is just a number," I said.

"Spoken like someone in their twenties."

"Twenty-four." I raised my glass. "Ancient by some standards."

This time, his smile reached his eyes.

We fell into conversation easily after that. Nothing too personal. Nothing too deep. He told me about his work—something in technology and real estate, deliberately vague. I told him about my job in marketing, carefully avoiding names and details.

We talked about the city. About the hotel. About everything and nothing.

And slowly, somewhere between my second French 75 and his third scotch, the sharp pain in my chest started to dull.

"Can I tell you something?" I heard myself say. The alcohol was definitely working now.

"Of course."

"I spent three years trying to be perfect for someone. I changed everything about myself. My clothes. My opinions. Even the way I laughed." The words tumbled out. "And you know what I realized tonight?"

"What?"

"He never deserved any of it."

Alex was quiet for a moment. Then: "No. He didn't."

The certainty in his voice made something in my chest crack. Not break—it was already broken. But crack open enough that I could breathe again.

"I'm sorry," I said. "You didn't come here to be my therapist."

"I came here to be alone with expensive scotch." He flagged down the bartender. "But this is better."

"Is it?" I looked at him. Really looked at him. There was something in his eyes. Sadness. Loneliness. Something that mirrored what I was feeling.

"Yes." He held my gaze. "It is."

The bartender approached. "Another round?"

I should say no. I should go to my overpriced suite and sleep off this disaster of a day.

But I didn't want to be alone. Not yet.

"Yes," I said. "Please."

Alex smiled. "To new decisions."

"To new decisions," I echoed.

We clinked glasses.

Neither of us knew yet that this decision—this moment—would change everything.

But we would.

Soon.