I stood at the edge of the rooftop terrace, looking out over Manhattan. The city stretched away in every direction, a grid of light and glass and noise. Behind me, two hundred guests moved through the party I had spent three months planning. White orchids climbed the pergola. Candles floated in low glass bowls on every table. The caterers circulated with champagne and those little tartlets Easton's mother specifically requested. Everything was perfect.

I turned back and scanned the crowd. Easton stood near the bar, talking to his college roommate. He looked good in the suit I picked out for him. Navy, tailored, no tie. He laughed at something and the group around him laughed too. That was Easton. He made people comfortable. He made rooms feel easy.

I checked my phone. No messages. I checked the seating chart one more time, even though I had memorized it weeks ago. Aitana Larson was at table seven. Far from the center. Far from us. I had been careful about that.

My best friend Delphine appeared at my elbow with two glasses of champagne. She handed me one. "You did it," she said. "This is beautiful."

"Thanks." I took a sip. It was good champagne. Easton's father, Saul Wallace, didn't do anything halfway.

"You nervous?" Delphine asked.

I shook my head. "No. I'm ready."

She looked at me for a long moment, then squeezed my hand. "Okay."

The DJ lowered the music. That was my cue. I crossed the terrace toward the microphone stand set up near the center. Guests turned. Conversations quieted. Easton looked up from the bar and smiled at me. I smiled back.

I reached for the microphone.

Then I saw Easton's face change. He pulled his phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and his whole posture shifted. He looked toward table seven. I followed his gaze.

Aitana sat alone, her head down, her shoulders curved inward. She was crying.

I watched Easton put his phone away. I watched him say something to his college roommate. I watched him cross the terrace, past me, past the microphone, past two hundred people who had come to celebrate us.

He sat down beside Aitana.

The terrace went quiet in a different way. Not the anticipatory quiet of a moment before a toast. Something else. Something awkward.

I stood there with my hand on the microphone stand. Easton leaned close to Aitana. He said something I couldn't hear. She shook her head. He touched her shoulder. She turned into him slightly and he wrapped his arm around her.

I had seen this before. Not at a party. Not in front of people. But I had seen it. Aitana upset about something. Easton dropping everything to comfort her. Me waiting.

I let go of the microphone stand.

Delphine was beside me instantly. "Jimena—"

"It's fine," I said.

It wasn't fine. I could feel every single person on that terrace watching. Some of them looked away quickly when I met their eyes. Some of them didn't. Easton's mother, standing near the pergola, looked at me with something that might have been pity. His father, Saul Wallace, stood completely still with a glass in his hand, his face unreadable.

I walked toward table seven. My heels clicked on the stone. Easton didn't look up until I was standing right in front of him.

"Easton," I said quietly.

He looked up. "Babe, give me a second. Aitana's really upset."

"I can see that."

Aitana looked at me. Her eyes were red but her makeup was perfect. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I didn't mean to ruin anything. I just—being here tonight, watching you two—it made me feel so alone. I shouldn't have come."

I looked at her for a long moment. Then I looked at Easton.

"Get up," I said.

He blinked. "What?"

"Get up. Come with me. Right now."

He glanced at Aitana, then back at me. "Jimena, she's upset. Just give me a few minutes."

I felt something inside me go very still. Very clear.

"No," I said.

Easton frowned. "What do you mean, no?"

I turned and walked back to the center of the terrace. I picked up the small velvet box sitting on the table beside the microphone. The ring box. I held it in my hand for a moment, feeling its weight.

Then I set it down again. Unopened.

I took the microphone.

"Thank you all for coming tonight," I said. My voice was steady. "I know you came here to celebrate an engagement. But there isn't going to be one."

The silence was total.

I looked at Easton. He was standing now, staring at me.

"I'm sorry you came all this way," I continued. "Please stay. Enjoy the food and the drinks. They're already paid for."

I set the microphone down and walked toward the exit. Delphine caught up with me at the elevator.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Home," I said.

The elevator doors opened. I stepped inside. Delphine got in beside me.

As the doors closed, I saw Easton push through the crowd, trying to reach me. But he was too late.

The elevator descended. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

I didn't cry.

Not once.

I slept better than I had in months.

The morning after the engagement party, I woke up in my own apartment — the lease I'd signed two days earlier, the one Easton didn't know about — and lay in bed staring at the ceiling. No texts. No missed calls I cared about. Just quiet.

I got up. Made coffee. Opened my laptop.

There was an email waiting from a consulting firm I'd turned down six months ago. They were circling back. Still interested. High-profile retail expansion project. The kind of work that would put my name in rooms I'd only watched Easton fumble his way through.

Six months ago, I'd said no because Easton had a pitch meeting that same week and he'd needed me to prep him. He got the contract. Wallace Enterprises got the credit. I got dinner at a restaurant I didn't pick.

I read the email twice. Then I hit reply.

"I'm available. Let's talk."

I sent it before I could think too hard.

Delphine called an hour later. "You sleep?"

"Yeah."

"Liar."

I smiled. "I slept fine."

"Good." She paused. "Easton's been calling me."

I set my mug down. "What did he say?"

"That you're upset. That you'll calm down. That I should tell you he's sorry and he wants to talk."

"What did you tell him?"

"That he should lose my number."

I laughed. It surprised me. I hadn't expected to laugh today.

"There's something else," Delphine said. "Your dad called me. He wants to introduce you to someone."

I frowned. "Now?"

"He said it's been arranged for a while. Some CEO. Friend of a friend. He wanted to cancel after last night, but I told him you'd probably want the distraction."

I should have said no. I should have said I needed time. But the apartment was quiet and my phone kept lighting up with texts from numbers I didn't want to see.

"Fine," I said. "When?"

"Thursday. Dinner. Midtown."

"Okay."

Delphine was quiet for a moment. "You don't have to do this."

"I know."

"But you're going to."

"Yeah."

She sighed. "Wear the black dress. The one with the neck."

"I know which dress, Delphine."

"Just making sure."

I hung up and stared at my laptop. The consulting firm had already replied. They wanted to meet next week.

I smiled.

---

Thursday came faster than I expected.

I met my father at the restaurant entrance. Marcus Shaw looked me over, his expression careful. "You sure about this?"

"No," I said. "But I'm here."

He nodded. "Romeo Knight. Good man. Built his company himself. No family money. He's early."

Of course he was.

We walked into the private dining room. Romeo stood when we entered. Tall. Dark suit, no tie. He shook my father's hand, then turned to me.

"Jimena," he said. "Thank you for coming."

His voice was quiet. Deliberate. He didn't smile too much.

We sat. My father stayed for one drink, then made an excuse and left. I didn't blame him.

Romeo waited until the door closed. Then he looked at me. "Your father told me what happened."

I tensed. "Did he."

"He didn't give details. Just said the engagement ended." Romeo paused. "I'm not here to ask about it."

I blinked. "You're not."

"No." He picked up his water glass. "I'm here because I wanted to meet you. I've wanted to for a while."

I didn't know what to say to that.

"Tell me about your work," he said.

So I did. And he listened. Not the way people listen when they're waiting for their turn to talk. He asked questions. Good ones. He remembered details I'd mentioned five minutes earlier. He never looked at his phone.

When I mentioned the consulting project, he tilted his head. "That's the Apex retail expansion."

"You know it?"

"I turned it down last year. Too much ego in the room. But you'll handle it better than I would have."

I stared at him. "You don't know that."

"I do," he said simply.

We talked for two hours. He never mentioned Easton. Not once.

When we left, he walked me to my car. "I'd like to see you again," he said.

I hesitated. "I just got out of something."

"I know."

"It was ten years."

"I know that too." He looked at me steadily. "I'm not in a hurry."

I got in my car. He stepped back. I drove home and sat in my apartment for twenty minutes trying to figure out what had just happened.

---

The second date was dinner at a quieter place downtown. Romeo asked about my family. My work. The things I liked that had nothing to do with anyone else.

I asked him why he'd never married.

"I was waiting," he said.

I frowned. "For what?"

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he smiled slightly and changed the subject.

When I got to my office the next morning, there were white peonies on my desk.

Not roses. Peonies.

I stood there staring at them. My assistant looked up. "They just arrived. No card."

I picked up my phone and texted Delphine.

"He sent peonies."

She replied immediately. "Not roses?"

"Peonies. Like the ones I keep on my desk."

There was a pause. Then: "Jimena. He noticed your desk flowers."

I set my phone down. I looked at the peonies.

And for the first time in ten years, I felt something I didn't recognize right away.

It took me a moment to name it.

Hope.

The report sat on Easton's desk like an accusation.

I knew because Charleigh told me. Not directly. She sent a single text: "Client meeting fell apart. Father's asking questions."

I read it twice. Then I set my phone down and went back to work.

I was in my fourth week at the consulting firm. The Apex project was exactly as complicated as Romeo said it would be. Lots of ego. Lots of posturing. But I liked it. I liked the problems that had clean solutions if you thought hard enough. I liked that nobody expected me to fix their messes for free.

Delphine called during lunch. "Easton's been asking about you."

"To who?"

"Everyone." She paused. "He's not handling this well."

I looked out my office window. "That's not my problem."

"I know. I'm just telling you."

I hung up and pulled the Apex file back open. I had a presentation in two hours.

I didn't think about Easton.

I didn't let myself.

---

Saul Wallace walked into his son's office without knocking.

Easton looked up from his laptop. His father stood in the doorway holding a folder. He didn't sit down.

"The Marchetti account is gone," Saul said.

Easton blinked. "What?"

"Gone. They canceled the contract this morning." Saul opened the folder and set it on the desk. "Because you missed three consecutive deadlines and didn't return their calls."

Easton stared at the file. "I'll fix it."

"You won't." Saul's voice was flat. "I spoke to Marchetti myself. He said the relationship worked when Jimena Shaw was managing it. He didn't say your name once."

Easton's jaw tightened. "I can handle it."

Saul looked at him for a long moment. "How much of your work was actually hers?"

Easton opened his mouth. Then closed it.

Saul nodded slowly. "That's what I thought."

He turned and walked out. The door clicked shut behind him.

Easton sat there staring at the folder. His phone was on the desk. He picked it up and opened Instagram.

He scrolled. And scrolled.

Then he stopped.

A mutual friend's story. Posted twenty minutes ago. Jimena at a restaurant. She was laughing. A man sat across from her. Tall. Dark suit. Leaning toward her like she was the only person in the room.

Easton's hand tightened around the phone.

He screenshotted the image. Zoomed in. The man's face was partially turned, but Easton didn't recognize him. He looked at Jimena. She looked happy.

She looked like she'd already forgotten him.

He called her. It rang four times. Voicemail.

He called again. Voicemail.

Again.

Again.

On the sixth call, the line went dead immediately. She'd blocked him.

Easton stared at his screen. Then he opened the screenshot again.

The restaurant. Tribeca. He knew that place.

He stood up.

---

Romeo was telling me about a supply chain problem when I saw the flash of movement.

Easton pushed past the maître d' like the man wasn't there. His face was flushed. His tie was loose. He crossed the restaurant in ten strides and stopped at our table.

"Jimena," he said. His voice was too loud.

I looked up slowly. I felt Romeo go still across from me.

"You need to leave," I said quietly.

Easton ignored me. He turned to Romeo. "Who the hell are you?"

Romeo didn't move. He looked at Easton the way you'd look at something mildly inconvenient. "You're making a scene."

"I'm making a scene?" Easton laughed. It didn't sound right. "You're sitting here with my fiancée—"

"Ex," I said. My voice was steady. "Ex-fiancée."

Easton turned back to me. "We need to talk."

"No."

"Jimena—"

"No." I set my glass down. The restaurant had gone completely silent. Every table was watching. I stood up. "You don't get to do this."

Easton stepped closer. "You're really going to throw away ten years for some random—"

"Stop," I said.

He didn't stop. "You think he actually cares about you? He's just—"

I slapped him.

Not hard. Just enough.

The sound cut through the silence like glass breaking.

Easton stared at me. His hand went to his cheek.

I picked up my purse. I looked at him one more time.

"You ruined our engagement party to comfort another woman," I said quietly. "You spent ten years making me feel like I was never enough. You called me sixteen times today because you can't handle the fact that I'm done. So no. I'm not throwing anything away. You already did that."

I turned to Romeo. "Let's go."

Romeo stood. He placed cash on the table without counting it. Then he put his hand on the small of my back and guided me toward the door.

Easton didn't follow.

I didn't look back.