Chapter 7

“You’re not going to believe this,” Emily says, her voice tense with the kind of urgency that makes your stomach drop before your brain can even catch up.

“He’s engaged.”

I blink. “Who’s engaged?”

She exhales like it should be obvious. “Axton Rowe, Charlotte. Not Monty. God, no.”

I freeze in the tub.

The phone slips an inch from my wet hand and I stare at it like it just cursed me. Warm water clings to my skin. The bubbles have started to fade. My jaw is hanging open like I’m catching flies.

“Charlotte?” Emily’s voice crackles from the speaker. “You still there?”

“I—what do you mean, engaged?” I whisper, dragging the phone closer again like it’s some kind of bomb. “Engaged to who?”

“I don’t know the girl,” Emily says quickly. “But I overheard it at the gallery. We were planning for my debut show, and the curator was name-dropping all the VIP guests, and Axton came up. She said he’s attending with his fiancée. Like, his fiancée.”

The bubbles around me pop slowly, one by one. The water has gone cold, but I don’t move. I feel... hollow. Like the news physically knocked something out of me.

I stand up so fast water sloshes over the edge of the tub, splashing onto the tile with a wet slap. I wrap a towel around myself, barely gripping the phone as I pace. Wet footprints trail behind me across the bathroom floor.

“He’s engaged,” I repeat, like saying it again might change the meaning. “Engaged. As in currently betrothed? Not like a long-lost ex or a tabloid mix-up?”

“Sounds like it’s now,” Emily says. “That’s all I heard, okay? I figured you’d want to know.”

I don’t respond. I can’t. My head’s already spiraling into a hundred what-ifs and worst-case scenarios.

Engaged. He’s engaged.

To who? Some heiress? A B-list actress with a foreign last name? A model with legs for days and a Vogue contract?

“Homewrecking Nobody Seduces Real Estate Royalty,” I mutter, tugging the towel tighter around myself. “Jesus. I’m going to end up in a Buzzfeed listicle.”

“Charlotte—” Emily tries.

“Maybe it’s a rumor,” I say too loudly, cutting her off. “Maybe the curator was wrong. Maybe it’s an ex and she doesn’t know they broke up. Or maybe, they’re fake engaged! Celebrities do that. For publicity. Or image. Or taxes. Right?”

I swipe open my laptop with wet fingers, dragging the towel around me as I settle on the edge of the bed. My hair’s dripping onto the keyboard but I don’t care.

I type his name into the search bar like I’m summoning a ghost.

Axton Rowe.

The results flood in, articles, photos, a Forbes profile, a “Top Ten Most Eligible Bachelors” list from last year. My heart jumps when I spot a blurry paparazzi shot of him walking beside a tall brunette in sunglasses, but there’s no caption naming her.

Nothing confirming a fiancée.

No diamond-ring reveal. No red carpet announcement. No exclusive interview about how they met on a yacht or bonded over shared trauma and bespoke sushi.

Just whispers. Reddit threads. A DeuxMoi blind item that might be about him, or some other billionaire with good hair and commitment issues.

But somehow, the absence of proof makes it worse. It’s like waiting for a slap that hasn’t landed yet, flinching in anticipation.

By the time I crawl into bed, my towel has nearly opened and my hair’s tangled from pacing. I stare at the ceiling in the dark, every muscle tight.

Sleep never really comes.

I show up at the office Monday morning looking like someone who hasn’t slept, and also possibly fought a small battle on the way here.

Callie spots me from across the open floor and her eyes go wide. She’s already holding a paper cup in one hand, pink cardboard box in the other, and she rushes toward me in her strappy heels like I’m a wounded animal.

“Okay,” she says, eyes scanning my face. “I brought your usual and your emotional support donuts. What the hell happened?”

She thrusts the coffee into my hand before I can respond. I take a sip.

Too much almond milk. Barely any espresso. And a splash of vanilla syrup. Perfect, just the way I like it.

I lower my sunglasses halfway down my nose. The glare from the overhead lights feels like knives to my brain.

“Please don’t be loud,” I whisper. “I’m not emotionally stable enough for echoes.”

She stares at me. My eyes must be really puffy because her jaw tightens.

“Oh god. Did you cry over Monty?” she gasps, already reaching to grab my wrist like she needs to shake sense into me.

“Shhh!” I hiss, yanking my arm away and glancing around. “Do you want to get me fired?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re not important enough to get fired for crying. Yet.”

Before I can tell her it wasn’t about Monty, at least not entirely, someone calls my name from the conference room.

Meeting. Right. I totally forgot I had a pitch review today. Of course.

Callie gives me a look that says we are not done here, and I drag myself into the room like a ghost of my better self. I slide into my seat, keep my shades on, and pretend I’m not one wrong sentence away from falling apart.

At some point, a new hire I don’t recognize, asks if I’m wearing sunglasses because I think I’m Anna Wintour or because I’m hungover.

“Yes,” I say without looking up.

Laughter. Great. I’m comedy now.

My phone buzzes on the table beside me and I sneak a glance. It’s our group chat.

Callie: “WHY IS NO ONE SAYING WHO HE’S ENGAGED TO I’M GOING TO SCREAM.”

Emily: “I told you I don’t know! The curator just said ‘his fiancée’ like she assumed everyone knows who she is. Rich people language, I guess.”

My head throbs. My phone buzzes again. And again.

It’s Monty.

Of course it is.

I silence it without unlocking the screen. My fingers are shaking.

I sit through the rest of the meeting mostly in a daze, nodding at the right moments, typing a sentence or two I’ll probably delete later. When it ends, I mumble something about a deadline and practically sprint to the elevator.

By the time I get home, I’m done pretending to be human.

The shoes come off first, kicked somewhere toward the coat rack. Then my hair tie goes flying as I yank down the twist I’d half-heartedly styled this morning. I peel off my jacket, unbutton my blouse, and collapse onto the couch without even turning on a light.

The room smells like lavender cleaner and old anxiety.

I reach for the closest bottle of alcohol, a random half-empty rosé I forgot I had, and take a long sip. No glass. No thoughts. At this point, I might as well drink my sorrows away.

My toes, still painted lilac from the salon trip I booked to feel better after the Monty mess, tap against the edge of the coffee table. One nail’s chipped. Fitting.

The bottle’s cold and sweating in my hand when my phone buzzes again.

A voice message.

Monty.

I stare at the notification for a full minute. I should delete it. I know I should. But instead, I press play.

His voice fills the quiet.

“Hey… um. I don’t really know why I’m doing this. I just,ugh. I’ve been thinking about you. About us. I miss our mornings together. Your laugh when you burned the toast. That stupid way you used to sing along to the Kehlani playlist. I didn’t know what I had. And maybe that’s on me, maybe I screwed it all up…”

He trails off for a second.

“I shouldn’t be saying this. But Charlotte I—”