A few months ago, I was engaged to Dr. Richard Demos. A well-known, respected surgeon from a wealthy Greek family. He checked every box my mother ever wanted for me. She was thrilled.
I was living in a four-bedroom condo on the Upper East Side. On paper, I had everything a woman could want: a handsome fiancé, money, status, my dream job.
Now? I live in a studio apartment that feels smaller by the day. The walls seem to close in a little tighter every time I think about what I traded—one kind of suffocation for another. Expectations then, shame now.
And my family made sure I felt every ounce of it. My mamá didn’t speak to me for weeks. She spokeatme, through voicemails and text messages, but nevertome. And my yiayiá? I’m officially the family disgrace. Becausehow dare I…
Sometimes I still see their faces, my mamá’s horror, the guests’ whispers, Yiayiá crossing herself like I’d just cursed the family name.
At least I still have my dream job. So I guess one thing’s going my way.
Oh, and Matt and I are friends again.
I glance up at him, falling into an easy rhythm beside him. There are only a few people in my life I’d let waltz into my office unannounced, or drag me to lunch in the middle of the day when I’ve got a hundred things to do.
Matt’s one of them. He’s always been one of them.
Well…almostalways.
He shrugs off his suit jacket. “Christ. It’s fucking hot out here.”
He’s not wrong. It’s muggy, sticky, and the smell wafting from the New York sewers has me wanting to hold my breath.God, the smells.
“I don’t know how you wear a suit in this heat.”
“I wear a suit every day.”
“I know.” Anddamn, does he wear a suit. I remember what it felt like to be the one ripping it off him.
But then I remember how many other hundreds have done the same, and that thought kills whatever nostalgia had started creeping in.
He rambles about his work meeting for most of the short walk to his favorite steakhouse, weaving through the crowded Manhattan sidewalks, my heels clicking with every step.
Matt opens the door for me, his hand brushing the small of my back as I step inside.
The hostess smiles as she greets us and gestures toward the back of the restaurant, whereMatt’s table, the one with the best view of the river, waits for us.
He’s been coming here for years. All he has to do is text the manager in the morning andvoilà, a table appears, and the food follows shortly after; always perfect, the service flawless.
Matt pulls out my chair, and I slide in.
“You talk to Jensen this week?” I ask as he takes the seat across from me.
“Yeah. A few days ago.”
Jensen’s his best friend. They grew up in the same building, and Matt basically became an extended member of his family—holidays, sibling trips, Sunday dinners. He might as well be Matthew Adams.
The Grayson name is about the only thing he ever kept from his parents. That, and the pressure to uphold it.
I get that more than I should.
We’re similar that way. It’s part of why we’ve always bonded. Only Matt’s succeeded above and beyond. Me? I’m still trying to figure out how not to be a disappointment.
All I had to do was get a respectable job, marry up, and have babies.
I managed one of the three.
“How’s Alley?” I ask.
