Chapter One
What. The. Hell. Just. Happened?
One moment, I had a perfectly curated life—a steady relationship, a predictable routine, a future that was practically set in stone.
Now?It’s in shambles.
My chest is tight, my breath shaky as I press my forehead against the cool window of the cab, watching the blurred lights of London rush past. My reflection stares back at me—mascara-streaked cheeks, swollen eyes, the ghost of a girl who, an hour ago, thought she had it all.
I yank my long brown hair away from my face and swipe at the fresh wave of tears spilling down my cheeks. Then, with zero care for decorum, I dig a lacy handkerchief from my handbag and blow my nose as obnoxiously as possible.
The cab driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, one brow raised.
I don’t care.
I don’t care aboutanythingright now.
Joseph—my boyfriend,my ex-boyfriend—dumped me.
On Valentine’s Day, of all days.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
We had dinner reservations. He ordered my favorite wine. There was candlelight. I thought—no, I was sure—he was going to propose. Instead, he blindsided me with a breakup speech straight out ofLegally Blonde.
IthoughtI was everything to Joseph.
Ithoughtwe were building a future.
Ithoughthe loved me.
Turns out, I was wrong.
Sowrong.
Not only did he dump me after four years, but he barely showed an ounce of emotion while doing it. As if our entire relationship was justfun. That was his exact word, by the way, right before he packed my suitcases, shoved them into my arms, and pushed me out the door.
Like I wasnothing.
A fresh river of tears rolls down my face, taking my heavily applied eyeliner with it.
The cab driver sighs. I catch another glance from him in the mirror.
In response, I blow my nose again—loud and unapologetic.
The drive to the Rutherford Regent Hotel drags on forever, each passing streetlight making the ache in my chest heavier.
When we finally arrive, I shove a few bills at the driver, climb out, and march to the trunk to grab my bags.
The Rutherford Regent.
One ofDaddy’shotels.
I know I’ll be able to get a suite without a problem. It’s one of the few perks of being Rutherford Norman’s daughter.
I drag my suitcase behind me, two designer bags slung over my shoulders. My trusty Converse slaps against the pavement as I step toward the grand entrance.
I should feel relief. I should feel grateful that, at the very least, I have somewhere to go.
