“God, that’s cliché,” I groaned, setting aside the takeout container and melting into the couch. “I can’t. I’m just... tired.”
“That’s fair.” Anica squeezed my hand. “Just promise me one thing?”
“What?”
“Don’t burn anything else in the bathroom sink. Your security deposit is probably hanging by a thread after the confetti cannon incident.”
“No promises. Pyromania is my new hobby.”
“That’s the Mari I know,” Callan said with a grin. “Threatening arson even at her lowest.”
“Aim high; that’s my motto.”
Later that night, after Anica and Callan had gone, I sat alone in my apartment once more. The shower and the brief social interaction had drained what little energy I’d gathered, leaving me hollow again.
I curled up on the couch, flipping mindlessly through streaming services until I landed on a familiar rom-com; one of those predictable ones where you know from the first scene that the leads will end up together, no matter what obstacles arise.
As the characters met cute and proceeded through their perfectly choreographed dance of attraction and conflict, the damn tears started.Not the violent sobs of the first few days after Chicago, but a quiet, steady stream that seemed bottomless.
This was what I’d lost. Not just Hudson, not just the app, but the belief. The belief in possibility, in happy endings, in the idea that love could be real and lasting and transformative.
I’d built my career on creating perfect days for other people, on crafting moments that felt like movie magic. And somehow, I’d let myself believe I could have that too.
What a cosmic joke.
My phone buzzed with a text from Anica.
Thinking of you. Love you. This isn’t forever, I promise.
I stared at the message, wanting desperately to believe her. To believe that this emptiness wasn’t my new permanent state. That somewhere inside this hollow shell, the real Mari—vibrant, passionate, unstoppable Mari—was still alive, just waiting to resurface.
I didn’t respond to the text. Instead, I opened my laptop.
The password prompt appeared, and I hesitated. Opening this door meant acknowledging that life continued, that work existed, that I was still a person with responsibilities and dreams, even if those dreams had been stolen.
I typed my password and watched as my desktop appeared. My email icon showed 748 unread messages. My calendar was filled with appointments I’d missed.
I didn’t check my email. I didn’t open my calendar. Instead, I clicked on the browser icon and, before I could talk myself out of it, typed “Hudson Gable Modern Wedding” into the search bar.
The results loaded instantly. Articles, press releases, social media posts—all celebrating Hudson’s “innovative approach” to wedding planning and his “revolutionary new digital platform.”
I clicked on the first link, a Modern Wedding press release. There he was, looking unfairly handsome in a professionally shot photo, smiling that smile that had me writing my hotel room number that first night. That same smile that had tricked me into believing that maybe all of those romantic clichés I peddled to clients could happen for me.
And I hated that I didn’t hate that smile.
“Hudson Gable brings a fresh perspective to Modern Wedding as our new Creative Director,”the press release quoted Eleanor Trolio.“His digital wedding planning platform will revolutionize the industry, making luxury planning accessible to a wider audience while maintaining the high standards our readers expect.”
It said he was set to do a press release in two weeks. Lucky him.
I should have felt rage. I should have felt renewed determination to fight. Instead, a strange calm settled over me as I stared at Hudson’s face on my screen.
“You win,” I whispered to his image.
CHAPTER 17
Fuck the Gables
HUDSON
