Chapter 2

I don't remember how I got home from the nightclub. The hours after discovering Logan's betrayal blurred into a haze of tears and numb disbelief. I'd spent the entire night staring at my ceiling, watching shadows dance across it as dawn broke, my engagement ring discarded on the nightstand like a cruel joke.

When Violeta called the next morning insisting I attend her party that evening, I nearly refused. But the thought of sitting alone with my shattered dreams felt worse than forcing a smile among strangers.

"You need to get out, Alana," she'd said, her voice gentle but firm. "Sitting alone will only make it worse."

So here I was, clutching a champagne flute I hadn't sipped from, nodding mechanically as acquaintances chatted around me. Violeta's penthouse sparkled with elegant decorations and beautiful people, but it all felt distant, as if I were watching through fogged glass. I'd managed to avoid questions about Logan by claiming he was caught up with work, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue.

"Alana! I've been dying to ask about your wedding dress! Is it Vera Wang? I heard you had a fitting last week."

The question came from Cassandra, one of those society women who collected gossip like precious gems. Her perfectly arched eyebrows raised expectantly as she waited for details about a wedding that would never happen.

"I—" My voice caught, the facade crumbling. The room suddenly felt airless, the chatter too loud. "Excuse me."

I turned blindly, bumping into someone and nearly spilling my untouched champagne. A steady hand caught my elbow, stabilizing me. I looked up into dark, concerned eyes that seemed vaguely familiar.

"You look like you could use some air," the man said quietly, his voice a deep rumble that somehow cut through the noise. He offered a pristine white handkerchief, an oddly old-fashioned gesture that caught me off guard.

Without waiting for my response, he nodded toward the terrace doors. "There's a quiet spot out there. No one will bother you."

I should have politely declined. Should have maintained my composure. Instead, I found myself nodding, following this stranger through the crowd as tears threatened to spill over.

The cool night air hit my flushed skin as we stepped onto Violeta's terrace. The city lights spread below us like fallen stars, indifferent to my collapsing world.

"Thank you," I whispered, pressing the handkerchief to my eyes. "I'm sorry, I don't usually..."

"Xavier Rose," he offered simply, keeping a respectful distance as he leaned against the railing. "And no apologies needed."

Xavier Rose. The name clicked into place—the supposedly notorious playboy who ran in the same social circles as Logan. I'd seen him at events but never spoken to him. Up close, he looked nothing like the tabloid caricature, his expression thoughtful rather than predatory.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, his gaze fixed on the skyline rather than on my tears, giving me the dignity of privacy even as we stood mere feet apart.

Perhaps it was the gentle way he asked, or the fact that he was practically a stranger, but suddenly the dam broke. Words poured out of me—Logan's betrayal, the nightclub, the cruel words I'd overheard. Throughout my broken recounting, Xavier remained silent, offering nothing but his presence and occasional nods.

When I finally fell quiet, emotionally drained, he spoke softly. "What will you do now?"

I stared at my phone as it lit up with Logan's name for the twentieth time that evening. "I don't know. He won't stop calling. I can't face him yet, but I have nowhere else to go tonight."

Xavier hesitated, then offered carefully, "I could drive you home. Make sure you get there safely."

I studied his face, searching for ulterior motives but finding only genuine concern. This man, rumored to be such a heartbreaker, was showing more respect than my fiancé of three years.

"That would be kind," I managed, my voice small.

The drive to my apartment was silent but not uncomfortable. Xavier didn't press for conversation, seeming to understand my need for quiet. When we arrived, he came around to open my door, offering his arm when I swayed slightly from exhaustion.

Inside my apartment, the emotional weight of the day finally crushed me. My knees buckled as I crossed the threshold, and Xavier caught me with surprising gentleness.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, mortified. "I just don't want to be alone with my thoughts right now."

Instead of awkwardly excusing himself as I expected, Xavier guided me to the couch. "Then you won't be," he said simply. "Do you have tea?"

I nodded, watching in bewilderment as this man—this stranger who was nothing like his reputation—moved around my kitchen with quiet efficiency, preparing two mugs of chamomile tea. When he returned, he placed one before me and took a seat in the armchair across from me, not too close, not too far.

We sat in comfortable silence, the steam rising from our mugs like ghosts of conversations we didn't need to have.