Aftershocks

(Jasmine's POV)

The night air hit my skin like a cool reprimand, soft and cutting all at once.

I didn't look back at him. Not at the rooftop where the music still pulsed. Not at the glowing lounge sign or the blurred silhouettes of strangers leaning over the railing to smoke. Not even at the woman in burnt orange, probably whispering something smug as I walked away.

I just kept walking.

The city was alive in that way it only is past midnight, buses exhaling at corners, cars gliding by in steady streams of headlights, puddles reflecting electric pinks and blues from a lateclosing diner sign. My heels clicked on the wet concrete, each step a little punctuation mark that said, over and over: done, done, done.

My chest still burned with the confrontation. His face, wideeyed and caught, replayed like a highlight reel. The way his jaw clenched when I didn't give him an out. The way his hand dropped from that woman's waist as if I'd slapped him.

Three years. Three years of rearranging myself to fit his ambition, of halfhearted texts and holidays spent at his parents' house where I was treated like a piece of lint on their expensive rug. Three years of explaining why I worked late and being told I was "overcomplicating" my own goals.

And tonight, finally, I had no tears left to offer.

A couple brushed past me, laughing too loud, clutching each other like they'd never let go. A man on the corner strummed a guitar and crooned some low, grainy tune. His voice followed me down the block, threading itself through my thoughts until it softened the edges of my anger.

When I reached our building, I took the stairs two at a time. I needed motion, momentum. The elevator would feel too still, too much like going back to that rooftop and standing still under his excuses.

Inside our apartment, the lights were dim, the air warm with the faintest hint of Tia's citrus cleaner. She was curled up on the couch in her oversized hoodie, wine glass in hand, blanket tucked under her chin like she'd been waiting for this exact moment.

Her eyes flicked up the second the door closed. "And?"

I kicked off my heels, tossed my bag onto the chair, and headed straight for the kitchen. "Pour."

She didn't move. "Did you… win?"

"I don't know if that's what it was." I yanked a glass from the cabinet and slid it across the counter. She filled it halfway and handed it to me without a word.

I took a long swallow. The wine was sharp, tangy on my tongue, grounding. I closed my eyes and set the glass down. "He didn't even try, T. He just stood there. Said she was a friend. Like I'm blind."

Tia's eyebrows shot up. "A friend whose waist he needed to hold up in public?"

"Exactly."

She flopped back into the couch cushions, blanket slipping from her shoulder. "I knew it. I knew that man was dead weight."

"I thought I'd feel wrecked," I admitted, sliding down onto the other end of the couch. "Or embarrassed. But I don't. I feel… lighter."

Tia grinned, slow and fierce. "That's because you're finally seeing him without the filters. And without all the history blinding you."

I rubbed at the back of my neck, sinking deeper into the cushions. The room felt small but safe, like a cocoon I hadn't realized I'd needed. "Three years," I said softly.

"And not another minute," Tia replied. "Consider this your soft launch back into sanity."

I laughed, a short, sharp thing that surprised me. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're free." She raised her glass, eyes gleaming. "To fresh starts and no more garbage men."

We clinked glasses. The sound was small, but it rang like something breaking free.

For a while we just sat, sipping in silence. The hum of the refrigerator filled the gaps. My heartbeat finally slowed. The weight in my chest eased.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table.

I ignored it at first, not ready for another half-hearted apology or excuse from Chris. But when the screen lit, the name made my breath catch.

Adrian Wolfe.

My heart gave a little lurch. Tia noticed immediately. "Who's that?"

I opened the email.

Miss Ford,

Your presentation demonstrated sharp instincts and confident execution. The positioning you proposed is a direction worth exploring further.

If you are available, I would like you to join tomorrow's internal strategy session at 10:00 a.m. to observe and contribute.

A calendar invite will follow.

A.W.

I read it twice. Then again, like the words might vanish if I blinked too fast.

Tia crawled across the couch and peered over my shoulder. "Adrian. Oh my god. He emailed you. Personally."

I tried to steady my voice. "It's… it's just work."

She snatched the phone from my hand before I could stop her, reading aloud with dramatic emphasis. "'Sharp instincts and confident execution.' That is not just work, that is a mic drop."

I laughed despite myself, reaching to grab the phone back. "Stop."

She held it high, grinning like a cat. "He wants you in the room tomorrow? You know what that means?"

"That I have to get up early," I deadpanned.

"That you're not just some applicant he can ignore," she said, eyes bright. "He sees you."

I took the phone back and set it carefully on the table, my pulse still uneven. "He sees my work."

Tia stretched out, tucking the blanket under her chin again. "Work, sure. Let's call it that."

I threw a pillow at her. She ducked, laughing, and I couldn't help laughing too.

When she finally headed to bed, I stayed where I was, glass in hand, staring at the city lights beyond our window. My mind spun with a hundred things, slides I could improve, questions he might ask, the way his eyes had cut through me on that call. There was something in that stare, something I hadn't felt in a long time. It wasn't safety. It wasn't comfort. It was a challenge.

And for the first time in months, I wanted to rise to it.

By the time I dragged myself to my room, it was after one. I changed into an old sleep shirt, but I couldn't bring myself to climb under the covers. Instead, I opened my laptop on the bed and pulled up my pitch deck. The glow lit the room in soft blue as I scrolled through each slide, making small notes in the margins, adding ideas I hadn't thought of earlier.

"Wine without the snobbery," I whispered under my breath, testing the words again. It still felt right. Maybe even sharper now.

I clicked through the mockups, Instagram carousels, influencer partnerships, pop-up tasting events that felt fun, not fussy. I'd done this work a hundred times, but tonight it felt different. Like someone had actually seen the spark behind it.

I closed the laptop and set it aside. The city hummed outside my window. A car horn blared in the distance. Somewhere below, someone laughed. Life kept moving.

I leaned back against the headboard, glass still in my hand, and let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

Tomorrow.

Another room.

Another test.

Another chance to prove myself.

And Adrian Wolfe would be there, watching.

I felt the smallest smile curve my lips. Not the kind you wear for someone else. The kind that's just for you, when you know you're standing at the edge of something and you're not afraid to jump.

I set the glass down on the nightstand, reached over, and turned off the lamp. Darkness settled around me, but my mind kept moving, sharp and restless and alive.

Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.