I left him sitting there stunned and walked out into the cold.
He left a bad taste in my mouth all week, and I’d never even stood closer than three feet from him.
I told Max I didn’t like him.
He didn’t ask why, and I didn’t offer any explanation. What was I supposed to say? That Ryan had the charisma of plain oatmeal and talked about investment strategies the way most men talked about sports or cars? That I’d spent half the dinner picturing creative ways to stab myself with the steak knife just to end my misery?
No. Instead I gave Max a shrug and a bored look and left it at that.
It wasn’t even Ryan’s fault, really. He was exactly what Max thought I needed: stable, predictable, financially secure. The kind of guy who probably never even missed a dentistappointment. Someone who had his taxes prepared by February and ironed his jeans.
But he wasn’t Cillian. He wasn’t even Sebastian. God forbid. He was nothing. Bland. Just a guy in a suit with money, no real vices, and apparently, no soul.
I mean, say what you want about Cillian—and God knows, there was plenty to say—but at least he’d been interesting. At least he’d made it bearable. He wasn’t exactly the great love of my life, but he was fun. Silver-fox handsome—which, honestly, was a lucky bonus considering what I was really after. Money was the main thing, and I’d never pretended otherwise.
But somewhere along the way, I’d realized I actually liked talking to him. He kept me on my toes, threw questions at me as if my answers genuinely mattered, and always made me feel clever enough to belong in his world. Maybe it was just a game, but it felt good to be trusted; to be part of something bigger, even if that something was shady as hell and had nothing to do with love.
He’d told me everything. Work, politics, all the dirty stuff. He’d even told me about the women he was screwing back in Chicago. Believe it or not, I preferred that. Knowing the whole ugly truth was better than sitting alone in some penthouse guessing, going quietly insane every time he didn’t answer his phone. At least this way, I always knew exactly where I stood. No illusions. No surprises.
I still slept with him sometimes, obviously. Had to keep him coming back somehow. Had to keep him close, keep the money steady. It wasn't exactly romantic. Afterward, I always felt a strange emptiness—hollow, like something important had been scooped out of me, leaving me raw and exposed.
It wasn't his fault really. Not completely. I’d spent my whole life making these kinds of compromises. Girls who grew up witheviction notices taped to the door and electric bills overdue for so long they’d learned to keep the candles handy.
I just needed a man who could pay the bills, keep the lights on, fix all those broken things I couldn't figure out myself. Cillian had been exactly that—my golden ticket out of the constant anxiety of overdue rent, Mama’s missed medical bills, and grocery-store shame.
But it wasn’t free. Nothing ever was. Sleeping with him reminded me that even the things I thought I controlled were still on someone else’s terms. So I drank—wine, cheap beer, whatever was easiest to swallow—to numb the guilt, regret, loneliness. Whatever you wanted to call it.
And when drinking didn't work, Sebastian did.
Sebastian was fun. Way too charming. Honestly, he’d have made a great husband if I hadn’t permanently linked him to everything I was desperate to leave behind. Clubs, neon lights, 3:00 a.m. whispers, car sex that felt wild and careless and completely irresponsible—and exactly what I’d needed at the time.
Plus, his life moved in a totally different orbit than mine. His brother Cade was running in Chicago, which meant Sebastian was forced to spend half his life at fancy political events, surrounded by women who looked like Lilly Pulitzer had thrown up all over them. Imagine me at something like that. Bright dresses, pearls, hair perfectly pulled back by one of those preppy little headbands. No, thanks. I had enough trouble matching two socks, let alone multiple bright colors at once.
That was exactly the kind of girl Sebastian needed. Someone good, someone wholesome, someone preppy enough to balance him out. Sebastian was too impulsive, always seconds away from his next bad decision.
He thrived in chaos, but he couldn’t live there full-time—he’d burn himself out. What he needed was someone reliable.Someone who’d gently pull him back before he dove headfirst into disaster. A woman with a neat, uncomplicated life, who’d iron his shirts and remind him to get sleep and keep him from running too far off the rails.
It was the same reason I needed someone boring like Ryan.
But when he didn’t work out, Max set me up with another.
This one was worse. He was a lawyer.
Not like Marco.
Marco was the kind of lawyer who’d probably lied under oath before. The kind who had his hands in a hundred different deals at once and still managed to know what was happening in all of them. The kind who didn’t bother hiding what he was.
This guy? He had a clean record, a nice office, a handshake that was a little too firm, and the energy of a man who readThe Art of Warbefore bed.
“I specialize in corporate law,” he told me over drinks at some rooftop bar with a view of the entire city.
I swirled my martini. “So you sue people?”
“Essentially.” He laughed like I was funny. I wasn’t being funny. “But it’s a bit more nuanced than that.”
I took a sip. “Nuanced how?”
He launched into something about mergers, acquisitions, arbitration, whatever.
