Overnight, I became the woman everyone pitied.

The wedding was canceled. My life derailed. I ended things with Oliver, and within two weeks, they went public. Within three months, they were married. Ten years together, and it was like I never existed. He moved on as if I'd been nothing. And all the while, people whispered about the jilted bride.

The gossip reached my office-I still don't know how people got the details. Six months later, no one seemed to forget.

"Jamie, are you okay?" Elizabeth from accounting hovered near my desk, her face pinched with pity. "You look... you know."

"Fine." I forced a smile. "Totally fine."

"I just remember last year and..."

"Different year. Different life." I turned back to my computer. "Thanks for asking."

She hesitated a moment longer before retreating. I let out a slow breath.

My phone buzzed. Mom.

"Hey, Mom."

"Sweetheart! How's my favorite daughter?"

"Your only daughter."

She laughed. "Listen, I have wonderful news. You remember Linda from my book club?"

"Vaguely."

"Well, her son just moved back from London. He's a lawyer. Very successful. Thirty-five. Handsome, if I do say so myself, and I know what you're thinking-"

"Mom, I don't want to be set up with anyone."

"Jamie, it's been six months! You're thirty-two. I don't want you to end up alone."

"I'm not going to end up alone. I'm just..."

"Just what? Bitter? Wasting your best years?"

"I have work. Can we talk about this later?"

"Fine, but I have something to tell you. Your grandmother is turning eighty-seven next week, and she really wants you there."

My throat tightened. Oliver and Vanessa would probably be there too.

"Mom, I'm not going."

"Jamie, listen." Her voice went serious. "Your grandmother has cancer. Advanced stage. The doctors gave her months. This might be her last birthday."

The world stopped.

"What?"

"I know it's hard, sweetheart. I know what happened. But she loves you. She's asked about you every day. Please come. For me. For her."

My heart split in two-one piece for my grandmother, the other pure terror at facing those people.

"Okay, Mom." My voice came out hollow. "I'll think about it."

I hung up. The tears came hot and fast, streaming down my face before I could stop them. I didn't know if I was crying for my grandmother or the humiliation waiting for me. Maybe both.

My office door opened.

Shit.

I turned my face away, yanking at my drawer for a tissue. My shaking fingers found nothing.

"Counselor?" Simon Hart's sardonic voice filled the room. "You're..."

He stopped. Those blue eyes scanned my face, the tear tracks, the red nose.

"Hold on." He tilted his head, a crooked smile on his lips. "Were you crying, Counselor?"

"Shit." I muttered, giving up on the drawer.

Simon walked to my desk and held out an immaculate handkerchief, embroidered with the initials S.H.

"Here."

I wiped my eyes, trying to salvage my dignity.

"Thanks." My voice came out hoarse. "I'll get this back to you, washed."

He pulled out the chair across from me and sat, crossing one leg over the other like he had all the time in the world.

"Still the neurosurgeon?"

I swallowed.

"So you know?"

"Wouldn't know it if this company didn't talk about nothing but the lawyer who got cheated on seven days before her wedding by her fiancé and her cousin in her own bed." He propped his chin on his hand. "Tell me, the tiara story-is that true?"

I closed my eyes for a second.

"Yes. It's true."

"Damn." He let out a low whistle. "What a piece of shit."

I opened my eyes and stared at him. Simon Hart, the billionaire playboy who had a different woman at every gala, calling me Counselor and judging my ex-fiancé. The irony was almost funny.

"Want to vent a little?" He leaned forward. "Why are you crying?"

"It's nothing." I grabbed my tablet from the desk. "Let's talk about the contract with the-"

He didn't move. Just sat there, staring at me with those eyes that seemed to see right through me.

And I don't know why, but I cracked.

"My mom just called." My voice came out trembling without permission. "My grandmother has cancer. I have to go to her birthday party. And to make it worse, my ex and my cousin will probably be there. Newlyweds. Happy. And everyone's going to look at me with that poor thing face I already get here every single day."

Simon tilted his head.

"Got it." He ran a hand through his hair. "So you're crying because you have to face your ex and your ex-best friend on the battlefield while your grandma's dying. That it?"

"Pretty much." I let out a bitter laugh. "And the worst part is my mom wants to set me up with her friend's son. Some lawyer from London. Like I'm a dish that needs to be served up."

"Your ex was an idiot." Simon shook his head. "Ten years and didn't marry you? That says it all."

"And you're different?" I raised an eyebrow. "How many women have you had in the last year? Eighty?"

He let out a low, genuine laugh.

"First of all, I've never cheated. Second, if I stayed with a woman for ten years, I'd have married her in the first one." He leaned in. "And third, my girlfriends are all consenting adults who know exactly what they're getting into. I don't fool anyone."

"What a gentleman."

A smile escaped my lips.

He held my gaze for a moment.

It was enough for reality to crash back in like a punch.

"You know what's worse?" I kept going, letting the mask fall completely. "People looking at me with pity. That's what's killing me. And this birthday... my mom wants me to go, but I don't know if I can handle it."

Simon stood, walked to the window, and stared down at the city below.

"Find someone else."

"Like that's easy?"

He turned to face me.

"It's hard if you don't put in the minimum effort."

"I don't want to find anyone, actually." I crossed my arms. "After ten years down the drain, the last thing I need is another man."

"Do something." He shrugged. "Find a guy. Pay him, I don't know. Figure it out. Don't let them drag your name through the mud, Jamie Collins. You're my favorite lawyer. Don't disappoint me."

He headed for the door.

"Wait!" I stood. "Aren't we going to talk about work?"

"Leave that for the end of the day." He glanced back, that dangerous smile on his lips. "In the meantime, think about it. You deserve more than being the poor thing in the story."

And he closed the door.

I stood frozen, his handkerchief still in my hand. The faint scent of his cologne-wood and something citrusy-lingered in the air.

I took a deep breath.

How am I supposed to find a boyfriend in a week?

I grabbed my phone, staring at my mom's message with the contact info for that London lawyer.

I shook my head.

"No chance."

The image of Jamie Collins with her face streaked with tears wouldn't leave my head. Not because I cared-God forbid. It was because I'd never seen that woman lose her composure.

Three years at Hart & Co., and she was a precision machine: flawless reports, arguments sharp enough to cut glass, that calm voice that made even the most senior partners sweat in their thousand-dollar suits. And there she was, falling apart over some neurosurgeon who'd been banging her own cousin.

Jesus Christ.

I dropped the bar and sat up, wiping my face with a towel.

The glass door slid open.

"Brother."

Stephen. Of course. He always showed up when I wanted solitude, always with gossip I never asked for.

"You're weak today." He grabbed a twenty-pound dumbbell. "Weak."

"I'm training, not gossiping." I dropped the weights to the floor. "What's the bullshit today?"

Stephen settled onto the bench next to me.

"People are asking if you're going to the class reunion. Everyone wants to see the billionaire."

"Not going." I grabbed the bar, starting my presses. "Class reunions aren't my thing, you know that."

"Come on, Simon. People want to see you."

"Tell them to check Forbes."

Stephen laughed, but I caught the glint in his eye. He was hiding something.

"You heard Abby split from her husband, right?"

My hands stalled. The bar hung in the air for a second-long enough for Stephen to notice. I racked it, sat up, my heart beating harder than any set could justify.

"What?"

"Here." He held out his phone. "Her Instagram's clean. No photos with the husband. None. All gone."

I took it. Scrolled. She was beautiful-she always had been. Dark hair, green eyes, that smile that made me believe in love when I was eighteen. But the wedding photos, the trips, the couple shots-all deleted.

I handed the phone back without a word.

"Knew you'd like that news." Stephen pocketed the phone, that shit-eating grin on his face. "Always knew you never got over that breakup."

"I got over it."

"Sure." He laughed. "But don't get your hopes up, brother. Already talked to her. Tested the waters."

My eyes narrowed.

"What did you say, you son of a bitch?"

"Relax, man." Stephen raised his hands. "Just said: 'Abby, since you're single now, you should give my buddy Simon a shot.' It was a compliment."

"And what did she say?"

Stephen hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. I knew that hesitation. It was the same pause executives made before delivering bad news.

"She said: 'Stephen, you're sweet, but Simon's an amazing man. I just don't think we're in the same place. I have three kids now, a whole life, routines, responsibilities. And from what I hear, Simon's still pretty attached to the bon vivant lifestyle.'"

Translation: she thought I was a player that no sensible woman would take seriously.

The silence hung heavy between us. My hands were clenched, knuckles white.

"Hm." I stood, tossing the towel over my shoulder. "Heading to the office."

"Simon, it was just her opinion-"

"I know what it was." I was already at the door. "Later."

I strode down the marble hallway, into the penthouse. The glass wall dominated the room, Manhattan sprawling at my feet like a concrete jungle.

I pulled out my phone. Opened Instagram. Typed her name.

Abigail Lancaster.

The photos were there. Her at a café. Her at a park. With the kids. No ring. My chest tightened in a way I hated.

She was still fucking beautiful.

"What did you expect?" I whispered, forehead against the cold glass. "That I'd turned into a saint all these years?"

Maybe Abby was right. I was a dick.

Then why did her opinion still bother me?

Because you're dying to be a stepdad, you idiot.

I laughed to myself, bitterly.

Me, Simon Hart, the guy who'd never slept with the same pair of legs two nights in a row... wanting to step up for a freshly divorced mother of three.

I looked at her photo again. The kids. The missing ring.

And there I was, mentally calculating how I was going to win over three little brats who'd probably hate me on sight.

"Pathetic," I muttered.

But I didn't turn off my phone, which immediately started buzzing.

The name on the screen raised an eyebrow.

Jamie Collins.

I answered, putting it to my ear.

"Counselor." My voice came out rasps than I intended. "What happened? Did the building catch fire?"

"Almost." Her tone was professional, but I caught the exhaustion underneath. "Cavellier's legal team sent a last-minute amendment. They want to renegotiate the indemnity clause. Need your authorization to respond before nine, or we lose the twenty-four-hour window."

"Send it over email." I rubbed my face. "What time is it?"

"Eight PM, Simon. Are you in the middle of a date?"

"No." I laughed softly. "Just working out. But tell me something, Jamie." I glanced at my watch. "Are you still at the office?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Because I'm worried. Don't want my favorite lawyer burning out."

She let out a dry laugh.

"Keeping my head busy has been doing me good lately."

I grabbed a water bottle, took a sip.

"And the decision? Going to your grandmother's birthday?"

She took a deep breath.

"I don't know. Haven't decided yet."

I set the bottle down, an idea forming.

No fucking way.

Jamie was my lawyer. She'd tell me to go to hell before I finished the sentence.

Which was exactly why it would work.

She needed a man to take to her grandmother's birthday. I needed a woman who looked serious enough to take to that goddamn alumni event-and hopefully make my ex finally see me differently.

"Jamie-"

"I'm hanging up, Simon. Bye. Don't forget to check the email."

"Wait!" I cleared my throat. "How long are you staying at the office?"

"About thirty minutes. Why?"

"Stay there." I looked at my sweaty reflection in the window. "I'm gonna take a quick shower and I'll be right there."

"Simon, you don't need to come, just do it through the email-"

"Yes, I do. Twenty minutes."

I hung up before she could argue.