You Can't Afford My Broken Heart

Katharine Kent POV:

"When are you going to put her out of her misery, Drew?"

The words bled through the heavy mahogany door of the VIP lounge. I froze. My fingers, wrapped tightly around the velvet box containing the vintage Patek Philippe cufflinks, suddenly went numb.

The hallway of the Manhattan elite club was dimly lit by brass wall sconces. I stood perfectly still. My heart didn't just drop; it slammed against my ribs, knocking the breath from my lungs.

I pressed my shoulder against the doorframe, peering through the slight crack.

Inside, Andrew Blackburn sat slouched on a leather Chesterfield sofa. He swirled a glass of amber bourbon. His posture was lazy. His face, usually so composed and attentive when he looked at me, held a cold, bored expression I had never seen in our eight years together.

"Soon," Andrew said. His voice was a low rumble. He took a sip of his drink. "Katharine is useful for now. She's the perfect PR shield."

Bile rose in the back of my throat. My stomach twisted into a violent knot.

"A shield for Alida?" one of the guys asked, laughing.

"Exactly," Andrew replied, setting his glass on the table. He adjusted his pristine white cuffs, a gesture he always made when he was completely in control. "The press is relentless. If they think I'm serious about Katharine, they leave Alida alone. Alida is too fragile for the tabloids. I'm setting up a fake pregnancy rumor and a highly publicized wedding with Alida down the line. But until the trust fund is secure, Katharine plays her part."

"She's obsessed with you, man," another voice chimed in. "She's not going to let go easily."

Andrew scoffed. The sound was like a physical slap to my face.

"She will when she sees the prenup," Andrew said flatly. "I'll make the terms so draconian she'll run for the hills. She's just clinging to the lifestyle."

I couldn't breathe. The air in the hallway felt too thick, too hot. My vision blurred. I took a step back, desperate to get oxygen into my burning lungs.

My heel caught the edge of a metal tray stand left by a waiter.

Clang.

The sound of the heavy metal tray striking the floor was deafening in the quiet corridor. It was immediately followed by the muffled crunch of crystal glasses shattering against the thick, plush carpet.

The laughter inside the VIP room stopped instantly.

Through the crack in the door, I saw Andrew's head snap toward the entrance. His eyes narrowed, sharp and alert.

Panic, raw and electric, shot through my veins. I spun around. My heels dug into the carpet as I sprinted toward the corner. I threw open the heavy fire door and slipped into the concrete stairwell just as the mahogany door of the lounge swung open.

I pressed my back against the freezing concrete wall. I clamped both hands over my mouth, biting down on my own fingers to stifle the sob tearing up my throat.

Through the thick door, I heard Andrew's voice.

"Just broken glass," he muttered. "Get a waiter to clean this up."

The door clicked shut.

I slid down the wall until I hit the cold stairs. My chest heaved. The eight years of devotion, the late nights helping him with crisis management, the endless patience—it was all a clinical, calculated joke. I was a meat shield for Alida Scott.

I looked down at the velvet box in my hand. My knuckles were stark white.

I stood up. My legs felt like lead, but I forced them to move. I walked down the stairs, stopping at a metal trash can on the landing. I didn't open the box. I just dropped the ten-thousand-dollar cufflinks into the garbage.

I pushed through the ground-floor exit and stepped out into the biting chill of the New York night. The wind whipped my hair across my face. I pulled out my phone and ordered an Uber.

When the black SUV pulled up to the curb, I climbed into the backseat.

"Upper East Side," I told the driver. My voice sounded hollow, like it belonged to a dead woman.

As the neon lights of Manhattan blurred past the window, I opened my phone's photo gallery. Eight years of memories stared back at me. Andrew smiling at a gala. Andrew kissing my cheek in Central Park.

My stomach lurched again. I tapped the 'Select All'button.

With one press of my thumb, I deleted every single trace of him. The screen went blank.

The car stopped in front of my apartment building. I pushed the door open, walked through the marble lobby, and rode the elevator up to my floor.

I unlocked my door and stepped inside. I didn't turn on the lights. I walked straight to the living room and collapsed onto the leather sofa. The silence of the apartment pressed down on me.

My phone buzzed on the cushion.

The screen lit up the dark room. It was a text from Andrew.

Happy birthday. Stuck in a meeting. Let's do dinner next week.

I stared at the cold, sterile words. A dry, humorless laugh scraped its way out of my throat.

I tossed the phone onto the rug. I stood up, walked into the bathroom, and turned on the cold tap. I splashed the freezing water onto my face over and over until my skin was numb. I looked at my pale reflection in the mirror. My eyes were red, but the tears were gone.

I walked back into the living room and opened my MacBook. The bright screen illuminated my face. I logged into my legal portal.

My fingers flew across the keyboard. I pulled up my asset lists, severing every joint account and trust link tied to the Blackburn family. Then, I opened a blank document.

I began typing a Non-Disclosure Agreement. I made the terms ironclad. Total separation.

I attached the draft to an email and sent it to my private lawyer with a single line: Execute this first thing tomorrow.

A wave of exhaustion hit me, heavy and absolute. But my eyes were clear.

I picked up my phone, dialed a number, and waited for the voicemail beep.

"This is Katharine Kent," I said, my voice steady. "I need to book a full international relocation service to Paris. As soon as possible."