“I love him,” I whisper, the three words hanging in the air between us, pathetic and small, like a wilted flower I’m still desperately trying to revive. “No, you love who you thought he was,” Liana counters, her perfectly manicured nail tapping against the stem of her martini glass with surgical precision. “Or who you hoped he’d become when he finally grew up. But he’s shown you exactly who he is for seven years, Betsy. Seven birthdays. Seven Christmases. Seven New Year’s Eves where he might or mightnot kiss you at midnight. When are you going to believe him?”
Della reaches across the table again, her touch gentle as a butterfly landing on my knuckles, her silver bracelet catching the afternoon light. “What Liana means is that you deserve someone who chooses you first, not last.”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Liana nods, accepting her dirty martini from the waiter with a quick smile that doesn’t reach her hawk-like eyes. She takes a deliberate sip, leaving a perfect crescent of red lipstick on the rim of the glass. “Devon is trash, and you need to take out the garbage. Remember who you are, Betsy. Remember what you want."
“And what if what I want is him?” I ask, feeling the familiar ache spread through my chest like frost creeping across a windowpane, making it hard to breathe.
“Then you need to want more for yourself,” Liana says, raising her martini glass with its perfect crescent of crimson lipstick on the rim. “Because you are no one’s second choice. Not with that brain that designed the Riverside Plaza, those legs that turn heads even in sensible work heels, and that corner office overlooking the Hudson.”
My phone vibrates against the table, Devon’s name illuminating the screen. The three of us stare at it like it’s a ticking bomb.
“Don’t answer it,” Della whispers.
“At least not right away,” Liana amends. “Make him wait for once.”
The phone continues to vibrate, inching across the white tablecloth like some desperate mechanical insect. My fingers twitch with the urge to reach for it, to hear hisvoice, to feel that momentary rush when Devon Cook chooses me, even if it’s just for tonight, even if it’s just because his other plans fell through.
“I can’t,” I whisper, my hand already moving toward the phone.
Liana’s fingers close around my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. “Yes, you can. You design buildings that touch the sky, Betsy. You can certainly let a call go to voicemail.”
The phone stops vibrating. The silence that follows feels enormous, like the hollow space inside a cathedral dome.
“There,” Liana releases my wrist. “The world didn’t end.”
But something shifts inside me—a tiny tectonic plate moving beneath the landscape of my heart. A text message appears on the screen: Please, Bets. I need you tonight.
The familiar nickname makes my chest tighten. He only calls me Bets when he wants something. When he’s trying to be charming. When he’s slipping back into my life like water finding its way through cracks in concrete.
“What does he want?” Della asks, her voice gentle.
“Me,” I say, hating how pathetic it sounds. “He wants me."
“No,” Liana corrects, her hazel eyes suddenly fierce in the soft bistro lighting. “He wants what you provide—comfort, validation, sex without consequences. If he wanted you, truly wanted Betsy Miller, brilliant architect and loyal friend, he would have committed years ago.”
The answer comes to me with sudden, crystal clarity—a blueprint unfurling in my mind, revealing the foundation of a structure I’ve been building for seven years. “He'sgoing to do what he always does. Apologize. Promise it will be different. Tell me I’m the only one who really understands him.”
And I’ll believe him, because I always do.
Instead of answering his text, I drop my phone into my purse like I’m disposing of radioactive waste. “There,” I announce to my friends with mock solemnity, “I hereby declare this a Devon-free zone for exactly”—I check my watch—“the next seventeen minutes and thirty-two seconds. A personal record in the making.”
CHAPTER 3
BETSY
The espresso machine hisses like a cornered serpent, punctuating the honey-gold afternoon quiet of Rosemary’s, where the scent of freshly ground beans mingles with pastries. I’m fifteen minutes early for my meeting with the mysterious Conor Campbell—a name whispered with reverence in Manhattan architecture circles lately. His tech company, Nexus, has venture capitalists falling over themselves, and industry gossip suggests he’s planning a headquarters that will redefine the Brooklyn skyline.
I smooth my charcoal pencil skirt against my thighs, feeling the expensive wool blend beneath my fingertips, and adjust the portfolio on the reclaimed oak table. The worn cognac leather case, its corners softened by years of hopeful presentations, contains my most ambitious work—glass-and-steel designs that have earned appreciative nods from colleagues but not yet the career-defining commission I lie awake dreaming about.
My phone buzzes with a text from Devon, his name appearing with a familiar twist in my stomach:
“Tonight?” Just one word. No context needed between us anymore.
I turn the phone face down without replying, just as the bell above the door chimes with a bright, tinny sound that cuts through the coffee shop’s murmur. The man who enters has to duck slightly beneath the vintage doorframe, his movement graceful despite his height. Tall—easily six-four—with broad shoulders that fill out his tailored navy suit without straining a single thread. His dark hair catches the afternoon light streaming through the windows, revealing subtle auburn undertones, neatly styled with a natural wave that softens his strong jawline, but not fussy or overproduced.
When his gaze finds mine across the room, I can see the piercing blue of his eyes even at this distance—not pale like winter ice, but deep and saturated like the Mediterranean on a cloudless day. I straighten, suddenly aware of my posture, my breathing becoming shallow, the loose strand of hair that has escaped my careful styling now tickling my cheek. Conor Campbell moves through the space with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly where he belongs in the world, each step deliberate yet effortless, like water flowing around obstacles.
“Ms. Miller?” His voice is deep, with a melodic quality that resonates in my chest, carrying the faintest trace of an accent I can’t place—perhaps Irish, softened by years abroad. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting."
