Chapter 1
The risotto was perfect—creamy, with just the right amount of white wine and parmesan. I stirred it one last time, watching steam rise in lazy curls under the soft kitchen lighting of Ryan's Upper East Side penthouse. Three years, and I still felt a flutter when I thought of this space as partly mine. Not officially, of course. Nothing with Ryan was ever official.
I smoothed down the red dress I'd chosen tonight—the one he claimed to hate but couldn't keep his eyes off. A small rebellion, perhaps my only one. The fabric clung to my curves in a way that made me feel powerful, even as I played the role I'd perfected: the devoted girlfriend who wasn't actually a girlfriend.
"Something smells amazing," Ryan's voice, low and commanding, sent a familiar shiver down my spine as he appeared in the doorway. His suit jacket was slung over one shoulder, tie loosened just enough to hint at the transition from ruthless investment banker to the man only I knew.
"Just in time," I smiled, tilting my face up as he crossed the kitchen in three long strides. His lips brushed my temple—not quite my mouth, never too intimate too quickly. That was Ryan's way. Everything measured, controlled.
"The red dress again?" he murmured against my hair, his free hand sliding around my waist. "You know what it does to me."
"That's why I wore it," I replied, gently pulling away to serve our dinner. We moved around each other with the practiced ease of long-term lovers, a choreographed dance we'd perfected over three years. I set our plates on the dining table while he selected a bottle of wine from his meticulously organized collection.
"Chianti?" he asked, already knowing my answer.
"Perfect."
The candles I'd arranged cast a warm glow across the sleek dining table. For anyone looking in, we might have been husband and wife. The thought sent an ache through my chest—the familiar pain of wanting something I'd promised myself I wouldn't need.
Ryan took his seat across from me, his eyes catching the candlelight as he raised his glass. "To your cooking."
"To us," I countered softly.
Something flickered across his face—too quick to identify—before he clinked his glass against mine. "The risotto is exceptional, Jess."
"I added more wine than usual," I said, watching him take his first bite. His approval shouldn't matter so much, but it did. Everything about him mattered too much.
We ate and talked about safe things—his latest acquisition at work, my new graphic design project, the gallery opening next weekend. The conversation flowed with comfortable familiarity, punctuated by lingering glances and the occasional brush of his fingers against mine. In these moments, I could almost forget that our relationship existed in a carefully maintained shadow.
Later, when dinner was cleared and the wine was nearly gone, Ryan pulled me into his arms. His kiss was hungry, possessive in a way that always made me forget my own name. We moved to his bedroom—our bedroom, in my mind—where the city lights spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting patterns across the silk sheets.
"You're beautiful," he whispered against my skin as the red dress pooled on the floor. His hands and mouth erased every doubt, every insecurity, until there was nothing but sensation and the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
Afterward, I lay with my head on his chest, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with trembling fingers. The rhythm of his breathing had slowed, and I could feel him drifting into that rare, unguarded state between wakefulness and sleep.
"I need to tell you something," he said suddenly, his voice clear and startlingly alert.
I propped myself up on one elbow, smiling down at him. "What is it?"
Ryan's eyes met mine, dark and unfathomable. He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, a gesture so tender it made my heart ache.
"I'm getting engaged."
The words hung in the air between us, surreal and disconnected from the warmth of our bodies still pressed together.
"What?" I whispered, certain I'd misheard.
"Her name is Charlotte Hayes," he continued, his voice steady, almost casual. As if he were discussing the weather or his lunch plans for tomorrow.
The room seemed to tilt around me. I felt my face drain of color, but years of loving Ryan had taught me how to hide my pain. I forced my lips into what I hoped was a smile, even as I felt something vital inside me begin to crack.
"Congratulations," I managed, the word scraping my throat like broken glass.
Ryan's eyes never left mine, searching for something I refused to give him—my devastation, perhaps. Or my rage. Instead, I kept my smile firmly in place, a mask that would become my armor in the days to come.