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There's an old saying: If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's yours. If it doesn't, it never was.
That had become Christopher's entire philosophy the day he walked away from Jenn in her dressing room, even if it sounded like bullshit. It had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He'd chosen to walk away from the one thing he wanted most. It had been a month since that day.
He hadn't seen her once since.
But avoiding her didn't mean escaping her.
The engagement had become one of the biggest topics in New York's social circles. Every charity gala, every business dinner, every magazine seemed to mention the upcoming Seinee-Miller wedding.
In one month, Jenevieve Miller, this June. The ceremony was set to take place in London, at the Miller family's sprawling estate. Chris tried not to think about it.
But that was like telling a fucking addict to quit overnight.
Nick and Matt had been showing up at his penthouse far more often than usual. Hell, the two idiots had practically moved in for a night earlier that week because they'd convinced themselves he was one bad evening away from drinking himself into oblivion.
As if he were that pathetic—he was.
Unfortunately, Matt had also done what Matt always did, and he’d told Elena everything about him and Jenn. Chris hadn't appreciated that in the slightest, but then again, Matt had never been capable of keeping anything from his wife. They shared one brain cell between them, and apparently it came with zero privacy.
The next morning, Elena had shown up carrying a cake. Written across the icing, in aggressively cheerful lettering, were the words: “What did the icing say to the broken heart? Don't worry, I've got you covered!”
He wanted to throw the damn thing in the trash.
Instead, he'd accepted it because upsetting Elena inevitably meant dealing with a grumpy, overprotective Matt afterward for upsetting his wife.
He’d always envied Matt in that sense. He had loved Elena since they were teenagers, helping her become the woman she was while making himself a man, and once he decided he was going to keep her, he didn’t let go.
Tonight was the first night in weeks that he hadn't locked himself inside his penthouse or drowned the silence in some quiet neighborhood bar.
Instead, he was standing in one of Manhattan's most exclusive clubs.
It wasn't his scene, but in his mind it was progress.
He hadn't slept with anyone in years, and at this rate, he was pretty sure his own dick was going to sue him for neglect. It wasn't for lack of options, and fairly speaking, he was far from a virgin. His college days and the years right after had proven he had plenty. But ever since a certain doe-eyed woman entered his world, he’d turned down every single one of them.
Unconsciously, he’d spent years waiting for someone who had never even been his. Falling in love with her slowly meant realizing, just as slowly, that neither his heart nor his body would ever turn on for anyone else.
Maybe tonight was the night he finally stopped clinging to a future that no longer existed. Maybe tonight he’d prove to himself that he could want someone else—that he could touch someone else—and finally let that stubborn rose in his heart wilt and die, to let it go.
A woman stepped up beside him, effortlessly attractive and clearly in her early twenties. Her voice slid over him, thick with sultry intent.
“You look pretty lonely for a guy that handsome,” she purred, leaning into his space. “What’s your line of work? You look important. Finance?”
“Security.” He answered plainly.
“Bodyguard?”
“CEO.”
Her eyes flashed with instant, heightened interest. Chris knew better than to let some young socialite entertain visions of becoming a billionaire’s wife, but small talk had never been his strong suit. He’d never needed it when quick, dangerous banter with her was all he ever craved.
Fuck, stop thinking about her.
The woman shifted closer, her fingers lightly trailing along the edge of the bar, her gaze dropping to his lips before sweeping back up. "You know... this floor is getting a little too loud to hear myself think," she murmured, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I hear the private suites upstairs are much quieter. Why don't we get out of this crowd and see if you're as commanding behind closed doors?"
He closed his eyes for a split second, taking a heavy breath. Just do it. Get over her.
"Fine," he grunted, his voice tight. "Lead the way."
A victorious smile flashed across her face as she took his hand, guiding him away toward the suites. The moment the door shut behind them, closing out the dim noise of the crowd, she didn't waste a second.
Her hands slid up his chest, resting against his shoulders as she pressed him back against the wall. Before he could even brace himself, her lips dragged across the skin of his jawline, dipping lower to press soft kisses against his neck.
She was sweet and warm, and felt entirely wrong.
Chris stood completely still, his hands resting flat against the wall on either side of her. His body was reacting out of sheer instinct, but every nerve ending in his brain felt completely numb. The touch was there, the friction was there, but the spark was dead on arrival.
“Let's get you out of these,” she whispered, her hands moving to his shirt as she nudged him backward onto the edge of the mattress. Stepping between his knees, her fingers made quick work of his top buttons before trailing down to the buckle of his belt.
“Enough.” Chris’s hand shot out to her wrist.
She froze, her eyes flashing with a mix of sharp frustration and sudden vulnerability. “What? We were just getting started. Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet now?” She tried to soften her voice, leaning in to kiss his jaw again, attempting to coax him back into the mood. “Let me make it good for you, sir.”
Chris didn't budge. Tense and restless, he looked up at her, really looking at her this time, past the sultry smile. He noticed the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the precision in how she moved, and the complete detachment in her eyes.
This was her job.
“You’re not even aroused,” Chris said flatly.
Her expression crumbled, the alluring facade stripping away to reveal genuine embarrassment and hurt. She pulled her wrist from his grip, her gaze dropping to the floor, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Chris rubbed a hand over his face, a sudden wave of exhaustion hitting him. He reached into his inner suit pocket, pulled out his wallet, and placed a stack of hundred-dollar bills on the nightstand.
“Sorry, dear. Get home safe.” He straightened his shirt and left the room.
The cool night air hit him the second he stepped out of the venue, but it did nothing to clear the heavy, suffocating weight in his chest.
Once he was driving, a profound, bitter disgust settled deep in his gut at himself. He had actually thought he could force it. Believed that if he just threw himself into a bed with a beautiful stranger, he could burn away the ghost of the woman who'd haunted him for years.
It was a pathetic realization, but it was absolute: he was never getting over her.
He couldn't even touch another woman. He couldn't kiss another woman. He couldn't even stand the smell of someone else's perfume without feeling like he was betraying a promise he’d never even been allowed to make. His mind, his heart, his damn body—they were all locked on a woman who would never be his.
When he finally made it home, he chugged a glass of water, leaning heavy forearms against the kitchen island as he tried to breathe through the strangling, tight feeling in his lungs. But the tension only spiked as unwanted images flooded his mind—Jenn, wrapped up with Brax.
What was she doing right now? Sleeping? No, she never went to bed this early. Maybe meditating. Selfishly, he hoped she was doing anything in the world other than Brax.
He dragged himself into the shower, aggressively scrubbing his skin as if he could wash away the ghost of another woman's touch. But no matter how hard he scrubbed, a toxic residue of guilt clung to him. Which was ridiculous. He owed no one anything. He had every right to sleep with whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted.
Wet and exhausted, he tossed on a tank and a pair of sweats before collapsing onto the bed. His hand slid under his pillow out of pure muscle memory, his fingers curling around a soft piece of fabric.
Her scarf. The one she’d left in his car two years ago.
It had long since lost her scent, but it was still hers.
The memory of that night hit him like a physical blow. The pouring rain. Him lifting her into his arms so her designer heels wouldn't touch the filthy puddle water. And then, her razor-sharp words:
“No, Chris. I don’t need your help. I don’t need you.”
That should have been the moment he walked away for good. Instead, two years later, he was still clutching her scarf, holding it to his chest just to sleep every night.
One day, she’d have it all. The house she always dreamed of, the perfect husband, and she’d forget he ever existed. Meanwhile, Chris would remain trapped in time, living in the hollow phantom of what could have been.
He’d probably meet her children years from now and marvel at how perfect they were, just like her. But deep down, he’d always see the one tragic flaw in them: they weren't theirs.
After nearly an hour of staring at the ceiling, climbing out of bed and made his way toward the kitchen. He opened a drawer and pulled out a half-finished pack of cigarettes.
He rarely smoked anymore. it tasted too much like his youth and a past he’d tried hard to leave behind. But right now, anything was better than lying in bed, drowning in thoughts of her. He slipped a cigarette between his lips, snatched his lighter from the counter, and headed toward the balcony.
He hadn't even reached the sliding glass door when—
Ding.
He let out a heavy groan. Only two people in New York were obnoxious enough to show up unannounced at this hour: Matt or Nick. Or worse, both of them. He shoved the cigarette back into the pack, tossed it aside, and stormed toward the front entryway, rehearsing every curse word in his vocabulary. Maybe even getting his wrist ready for a punch.
He yanked the door open.
The anger died instantly in his throat, wrist dropped in place. He stared back at dark hair and wide doe eyes locked onto his, which were holding a look that was equal parts hesitant and desperate.
Maybe the saying wasn't bullshit after all.
If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's yours.
“Jenn, dear, we really need to go over what you want for the dress. If we don’t place an order for custom work now, it won’t be ready in time. I was thinking you’d look exquisite in custom Chanel…”
Brax’s mother went on and on about everything wedding-related.
Jenn sat across from her, totally zoned out. She tried to keep a smile pinned to her face, but it felt impossibly heavy to hold. If she was being completely honest with herself, she couldn’t give a damn about dress shopping.
Directly across the table, Brax ate quietly next to his father. Now and then, he’d glance up and offer her a polite smile. He’d been distant. Truthfully, they had both been distant with each other for weeks now. Ever since the engagement, everything between them had shifted.
Brax hadn't grown cold overnight. He was still gentle, still attentive, but there was a distinct barrier between them—not how a man should look at the woman he was about to marry.
Deep down, she knew exactly why.
Two weeks ago, she’d walked into his study without knocking. The instant he registered her presence, he had folded the sheet of paper in his hands and swept it into his desk drawer with unnerving speed.
She’d pretended not to notice.
But hours later, once he’d stepped out to take a business call, curiosity pulled her back. She’d opened the drawer and found the letter. Dated nearly three years ago. Signed simply, From Your Willow.
A bittersweet love letter from a time before their world had fractured. Jenn was about to slide it back into place when she noticed a hidden latch toward the back of the drawer. A small wooden keepsake box.
She opened it. Inside lay carefully preserved movie tickets, pressed flowers, printed photos, and postcards. Love notes. Willow wasn't an insignificant ex. She was the ex. The one that got away.
Jenn had never confronted him about it.
A truly devoted fiancée would have demanded answers, flared up with jealousy, or thrown a scene. But how could she? Braxton turned a blind eye to her history with Chris, even though she knew, deep down, he suspected something. They both knew this match was built on practicality rather than passion.
But the fire burning inside her was becoming impossible to extinguish. Every morning she woke up, a heavy wave of dread washed over her as the wedding date crept closer, making her feel more detached with each passing day.
As the dinner wrapped up, Brax’s mother showered her with sweet compliments right up to the front door. Jenn wasn't naive; she knew the woman’s affection was purely transactional. Marrying into her family was as strategic for Brax’s career as it was for her own social standing.
But standing there tonight, she found herself questioning everything. Was financial security really worth sacrificing her heart? If she swallowed her pride and returned to work at her father's company, she might be able to reclaim her inheritance.
Brax drove the entire way in silence. It was the longest they'd been alone together since their engagement party. When he turned toward his apartment instead of hers, she didn't object.
Against her better judgment, she wondered what Christopher was doing. Maybe he was with Matt and Nick. Maybe he was at some club, surrounded by women. Maybe one of them was touching him.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Stop.
The elevator ride to Brax's apartment passed just as quietly. He unlocked the front door and stepped inside first, eyeing her before asking if she was okay. She nodded, and with that, he disappeared down the hallway toward his bedroom.
Jenn remained standing by the front door. Motionless.
Before she could think herself out of it, adrenaline surged through her body; she hurried down the hallway, and Brax looked up as she appeared in his doorway, unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt.
A confused smile crossed his face. "Everything alright?"
Her heart hammered so violently she was certain he could hear it. Before she could lose her nerve, the words escaped.
"Do you love me?"
The smile slowly faded from Brax's face, replaced instead by quiet confusion. "What's with the sudden question, Jenn?"
"I'm asking because..." She chewed on the inside of her cheek. "We're getting married in less than a month, and it feels like we're barely speaking to each other anymore. You don't... see it?"
Brax straightened, abandoning his shirt cuffs altogether as he leaned against the dresser, giving her his full attention.
"You're unhappy?"
Jenn laughed quietly, though there wasn't an ounce of humor in it. "I think we're both unhappy."
Something uncertain flickered across his face before vanishing behind a cool mask. "You're telling me this now? A month before the wedding? The timing's... a bit fucked, Jenn."
"I'm not trying to blindside you. I just..." She exhaled, frustration lacing her words. "I just... I don't think you love me, Brax. I know this arrangement works on paper. We both know what we get out of it. And I haven't forgotten that you asked me if I was sure before we got engaged. I’m not playing the victim here." She felt herself spiraling, her composure slipping. "But we’re way past playing house and pretending this is normal."
A flicker of silent helplessness passed over Brax. She could tell he was just as done with this. Shaking his head, he closed the distance between them, putting his hands deep into his trousers' pockets.
"Do you want me to love you?"
"You love Willow."
He flinched as if she’d uttered something foul.
“Jenn, if you need clarity on that, all you have to do is ask,” he said, his voice dropping into a tight, defensive pitch. “I’ve told you before, she’s the past. You are my future. We have our whole lives ahead of us to build a life..." He paused, the words catching in his throat before he forced them out. “And... to fall in love.”
“If Willow walked through that door right now, and she wanted you back... and your parents approved of her, would you still be marrying me right now?"
Eyes closed, Brax exhaled through his nose. It wasn't annoyance. It was the sigh of someone who'd been cornered by a question they didn't know how to answer without hurting the other person.
"What do you want, Jenn?"
I want Chris.
"I just..." Her voice wavered. "I need to know I'm not setting up for failure or entering something that could end up in divorce. Once you get hold of the company, you wouldn’t even need me."
"You've been in your head," he said quietly, reaching out with a cautious slowness. His hands settled lightly on her waist, holding her with just enough pressure to give her room to pull away. "And so have I."
His thumbs brushed rhythmically against the fabric of her dress. "We've both let things get between us. But we can fix this." He leaned in, pressing a tentative, soft kiss against the side of her neck before resting his forehead against hers. "I want us to try, Jenn."
She didn't lean in.
Beneath his gentle words, she could feel the forced effort behind every move. To Brax, making this work was his only path forward unless he was willing to face his family's wrath. For her, calling off the wedding meant enduring the fallout entirely alone, stripped of every safety net she had left.
His hands began to move, trailing down her sides, but her body felt completely paralyzed, unable to fight off his touch. The quiet sound of her dress unzipping echoed as he guided her back onto the mattress, shifting his weight to straddle her.
Shadowed by the dim light of the room, he couldn't see the tears brimming in her eyes, threatening to spill over. Brax leaned down, pressing hot, desperate kisses up the column of her neck, searching for any intimacy.
When he tilted his head toward hers, Jenn subtly turned her face away, refusing to give him her lips. His fingers worked hastily at the top buttons of his shirt, opening it up before his hand began to slide down her thigh, reaching toward the hem of her dress. The touch sent a shudder through her entire body.
"I love Chris."
Brax froze instantly, his hand stopping dead in its tracks as her confession broke through a choked sob. Jenn squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to open them, but she could feel the heavy weight of his gaze scanning her face in the dark. He didn't need to ask to know which Chris she was referring to.
A quiet, breathless "fuck" escaped him. Without another word, he shifted off her, carefully pulling the hem of her dress back down over her legs to restore her modesty. The overhead light clicked on.
Jenn sat up, her vision blurring through the tears. Brax stood near the foot of the bed rigid, one hand pressed against his forehead visibly overwhelmed.
The tears spilled over freely now. “I’m sorry,” she choked out, her voice trembling violently. “Brax, I’m so sorry—”
He cut her off with a sharp tsk. “Don’t apologize, Jenn. Just... fuck. This screws everything up.”
Fresh sobs wracked her body, the sheer guilt and exhaustion pulling a low, helpless cry from her throat. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking as the reality of everything they had just shattered settled into the quiet room.
Brax let out a long, heavy exhale. The tension in his posture didn't disappear, but the sharp edge in his voice softened completely. He walked back over to the edge of the mattress and sat down next to her.
"Hey," he said quietly, voice surprisingly gentle. "Don't cry. Please. I'm not mad at you, Jenn. I promise. If I'm being honest... I think I already knew, deep down. Ever since the day I walked in on the two of you. But I thought you were trying to forget him."
Oh lord does he know.
“I tried so hard not to love him, Brax,” she whispered, wiping at the tears streaming down her face. “For my own sake, for yours, and to avoid ruining everything we agreed to, but—”
“Your feelings were too strong,” he finished softly for her. Jenn nodded as he took in her expression. “I don’t want you trapped in a marriage when our hearts are somewhere else. I could force myself through the motions, but I’d never ask you to do that for me.” Our hearts. Not just hers.
He told her to start at the beginning, so she did. She took him through every piece of the puzzle: the night he left her on her birthday, the fallout from the Armand deal, and the agonizing year and a half of silence that followed. She admitted that she’d been ready to walk down the aisle with him, right up until Chris walked back into her life and tore her whole world apart.
Brax listened thoughtfully.
Jenn swallowed. "What do we do now?"
"It’s not about what we do, Jenn,” Brax shook his head slowly, a faint, weary breath escaping him. “What do you want to do?" She stared blankly, overwhelmed by the sudden weight of her own freedom.
"Do you want to be with Chris?" His tone was completely free of judgment. Jenn gave a single nod, and a hesitant but genuine, gentle smile touched Brax’s lips. "Then we'll send you home."
It was all too good to be true. “But what about your company? Your parents will still be furious, and I’ll mess things up for you as well.”
“You're not wrong. It'll probably be one of the biggest messes either of us has ever made. " He shrugged, helplessly. "The press will have a field day. But if you're finally willing to take the risk, then I think I owe it to myself to do the same."
Braxton would be a good husband one day, just not hers.
"You should go,” Brax nodded toward the bedroom door. “I’ll sort things out and come back tomorrow. We’ll have a proper conversation about what we're going to do.”
It felt like a thousand pounds were lifted off her. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, emotion rising up. Brax hugged her back without hesitation.
It was a goodbye.
"Thank you," she whispered through tears. "And again, I'm so sorry."
"I know."
When they finally pulled apart, both of them looked lighter than they had only minutes earlier. Jenn wiped at her cheeks and walked toward the front door. Her hand had just reached the handle when she stopped.
"Brax?"
He looked up.
"Call her." She didn't have to say her name for him to understand. "Figure it out. I want to see you happy too. You're a good man, Braxton Miller."
He rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "I'll think about it."
With that, she opened the apartment door and walked out. A yellow cab pulled to the curb, and she gave the driver the address.
The raw weight of reality finally began to crush her. She had just called off her wedding. What was she going to tell her family? The press? Within hours, the entire city would be buzzing with the scandal. They would have to cancel every vendor, revoke every reservation, and undo months of preparation.
But none of that really mattered.
She had thirty minutes in the back of the car. Thirty minutes to figure out how to look the man she loved in the eye and admit he had been right all along. Thirty minutes to torture herself with the terrifying possibility that she was already too late.
What if he doesn't want me anymore? The thought hit her gut like a lead weight. He had told her to go be happy and walked away. What if he had actually meant it?
The cab pulled to a stop outside the building, and her heartbeat doubled. Just be calm. She repeated to herself.
She approached the concierge desk. "Hello, I'm here for Mr. Srurniolo."
The concierge looked up from his monitor, smiling, and told her she was approved to go up. He never removed her from his approve list. Her heart did a leap.
As the elevator ascended, she fixed her face and herself. Putting on as much confidence on her face as she could. Get it together.
Suddenly, she was staring at his door. Refusing to let her brain catch up, she hit the buzzer just once, entirely lacking the courage to do it again.
It swung wide open.
Chris was standing there in a white vest and sweats, looking effortlessly devastating. He had a dark scowl on his face, a string of curses clearly resting on the tip of his tongue, but he froze the moment he realized it was her.
Disbelief softened his harsh features. "Jenn?"
Before she could lose her nerve, she stepped past him. Chris instinctively shifted back, making room as she walked over the threshold and straight into the center of his living room, coming to a dead halt.
Behind her, she heard the soft click of the front door shutting. His heavy footsteps followed, rushing to close the distance before he stopped just a few feet away.
"What's going on? Are you—"
"You win," she blurted out, slicing right through his question.
“What?”
"I’ve always hated feeling like I was losing to you," she began, her throat tightening so much it hurt to get the words out. "It’s been like that since the second you stepped into my life. I hated that some intern could make my father prouder than I ever could. I spent my whole life chasing his validation, while you just... had it."
Chris stood completely still, his entire body going rigid. "Jenn, what are you saying right now?"
It was now or never.
"I’m saying that I hated you for a long time. Deep down," she confessed, her voice cracking slightly. "You built something real out of yourself while I was just spinning my wheels, doing whatever my parents demanded of me. But I finally get it now. I can’t hate you for that. I can’t control my father's favoritism toward you, and I can't blame you for my own insecurities, either."
A strained beat of silence stretched between them. Chris ran a heavy hand over his face, a sudden surge of frustration radiating off him. He wasn't angry at her. She knew it.
"You think this was about winning?" Chris demanded, his tone strained, rough around the edges. He took a heavy step toward her, his jaw clenching hard. "Jenn, I never gave a damn about your father's approval. I worked myself to the bone because I was trying to be worthy of you."
Worthy of you. The words rang in her ears, spreading through her chest.
"Fuck, baby... don’t ever feel insecure because of me. I wanted nothing more than to see you succeed—you have to know that," he rasped, taking another step. "I respect your dad, and I can’t pretend he hasn’t done a lot for me. But if he’s hurting you and making you feel like shit? I won’t hesitate for a second to fuck him over. The only fucking approval I’ve ever wanted was from you."
Jenn swallowed hard. There was no hesitation in his eyes, just pure, uncompromising devotion to her. She was certain this version of Chris would stab a man ruthlessly if he had to for her.
"He didn't hurt me, Chris," she whispered, her voice trembling as she finally let the rest of the truth spill out. "I hurt myself trying to fit into a life that wasn't mine." She reached out, her fingers lightly brushing against the hem of his shirt. "I called off the wedding tonight."
His gaze darkened. “Why?”
She chose her next words with deliberate care. “Because... I think from the very moment you told me you loved me, I knew I loved you too, far more than I could ever hate you.”
“So you’re not engaged anymore?” Satisfaction laced his voice.
She shook her head softly, her eyes locked onto his. He looked like a predator locked onto its prey—every muscle coiled, waiting for the exact right moment to strike. It felt as though one wrong move would cause him to pounce and consume her whole. She'd never felt more alive.
“Then take off that fucking ring.”
Jenn’s breath hitched in her throat. The ring meant nothing to her as she lifted her left hand. Fingers trembled slightly as she slid the diamond off her finger, cutting the final thread tying her to a life she never wanted.
The band barely landed on the Island before Chris spun her around, pinned her, and crashed his mouth against hers so fast and hard it knocked the breath straight from her lungs.
ceyana’s note: what if i disappeared! i love you, mwah <3
⤷ masterlist ⟶ previous scene
⤷ cw . . . suggestive sexual dialogue, relationship conflict, emotional infidelity, and angst . . .
꒰ comment on this post to join series taglist ꒱
There's an old saying: If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's yours. If it doesn't, it never was.
That had become Christopher's entire philosophy the day he walked away from Jenn in her dressing room, even if it sounded like bullshit. It had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He'd chosen to walk away from the one thing he wanted most. It had been a month since that day.
He hadn't seen her once since.
But avoiding her didn't mean escaping her.
The engagement had become one of the biggest topics in New York's social circles. Every charity gala, every business dinner, every magazine seemed to mention the upcoming Seinee-Miller wedding.
In one month, Jenevieve Miller, this June. The ceremony was set to take place in London, at the Miller family's sprawling estate. Chris tried not to think about it.
But that was like telling a fucking addict to quit overnight.
Nick and Matt had been showing up at his penthouse far more often than usual. Hell, the two idiots had practically moved in for a night earlier that week because they'd convinced themselves he was one bad evening away from drinking himself into oblivion.
As if he were that pathetic—he was.
Unfortunately, Matt had also done what Matt always did, and he’d told Elena everything about him and Jenn. Chris hadn't appreciated that in the slightest, but then again, Matt had never been capable of keeping anything from his wife. They shared one brain cell between them, and apparently it came with zero privacy.
The next morning, Elena had shown up carrying a cake. Written across the icing, in aggressively cheerful lettering, were the words: “What did the icing say to the broken heart? Don't worry, I've got you covered!”
He wanted to throw the damn thing in the trash.
Instead, he'd accepted it because upsetting Elena inevitably meant dealing with a grumpy, overprotective Matt afterward for upsetting his wife.
He’d always envied Matt in that sense. He had loved Elena since they were teenagers, helping her become the woman she was while making himself a man, and once he decided he was going to keep her, he didn’t let go.
Tonight was the first night in weeks that he hadn't locked himself inside his penthouse or drowned the silence in some quiet neighborhood bar.
Instead, he was standing in one of Manhattan's most exclusive clubs.
It wasn't his scene, but in his mind it was progress.
He hadn't slept with anyone in years, and at this rate, he was pretty sure his own dick was going to sue him for neglect. It wasn't for lack of options, and fairly speaking, he was far from a virgin. His college days and the years right after had proven he had plenty. But ever since a certain doe-eyed woman entered his world, he’d turned down every single one of them.
Unconsciously, he’d spent years waiting for someone who had never even been his. Falling in love with her slowly meant realizing, just as slowly, that neither his heart nor his body would ever turn on for anyone else.
Maybe tonight was the night he finally stopped clinging to a future that no longer existed. Maybe tonight he’d prove to himself that he could want someone else—that he could touch someone else—and finally let that stubborn rose in his heart wilt and die, to let it go.
A woman stepped up beside him, effortlessly attractive and clearly in her early twenties. Her voice slid over him, thick with sultry intent.
“You look pretty lonely for a guy that handsome,” she purred, leaning into his space. “What’s your line of work? You look important. Finance?”
“Security.” He answered plainly.
“Bodyguard?”
“CEO.”
Her eyes flashed with instant, heightened interest. Chris knew better than to let some young socialite entertain visions of becoming a billionaire’s wife, but small talk had never been his strong suit. He’d never needed it when quick, dangerous banter with her was all he ever craved.
Fuck, stop thinking about her.
The woman shifted closer, her fingers lightly trailing along the edge of the bar, her gaze dropping to his lips before sweeping back up. "You know... this floor is getting a little too loud to hear myself think," she murmured, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I hear the private suites upstairs are much quieter. Why don't we get out of this crowd and see if you're as commanding behind closed doors?"
He closed his eyes for a split second, taking a heavy breath. Just do it. Get over her.
"Fine," he grunted, his voice tight. "Lead the way."
A victorious smile flashed across her face as she took his hand, guiding him away toward the suites. The moment the door shut behind them, closing out the dim noise of the crowd, she didn't waste a second.
Her hands slid up his chest, resting against his shoulders as she pressed him back against the wall. Before he could even brace himself, her lips dragged across the skin of his jawline, dipping lower to press soft kisses against his neck.
She was sweet and warm, and felt entirely wrong.
Chris stood completely still, his hands resting flat against the wall on either side of her. His body was reacting out of sheer instinct, but every nerve ending in his brain felt completely numb. The touch was there, the friction was there, but the spark was dead on arrival.
“Let's get you out of these,” she whispered, her hands moving to his shirt as she nudged him backward onto the edge of the mattress. Stepping between his knees, her fingers made quick work of his top buttons before trailing down to the buckle of his belt.
“Enough.” Chris’s hand shot out to her wrist.
She froze, her eyes flashing with a mix of sharp frustration and sudden vulnerability. “What? We were just getting started. Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet now?” She tried to soften her voice, leaning in to kiss his jaw again, attempting to coax him back into the mood. “Let me make it good for you, sir.”
Chris didn't budge. Tense and restless, he looked up at her, really looking at her this time, past the sultry smile. He noticed the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the precision in how she moved, and the complete detachment in her eyes.
This was her job.
“You’re not even aroused,” Chris said flatly.
Her expression crumbled, the alluring facade stripping away to reveal genuine embarrassment and hurt. She pulled her wrist from his grip, her gaze dropping to the floor, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Chris rubbed a hand over his face, a sudden wave of exhaustion hitting him. He reached into his inner suit pocket, pulled out his wallet, and placed a stack of hundred-dollar bills on the nightstand.
“Sorry, dear. Get home safe.” He straightened his shirt and left the room.
The cool night air hit him the second he stepped out of the venue, but it did nothing to clear the heavy, suffocating weight in his chest.
Once he was driving, a profound, bitter disgust settled deep in his gut at himself. He had actually thought he could force it. Believed that if he just threw himself into a bed with a beautiful stranger, he could burn away the ghost of the woman who'd haunted him for years.
It was a pathetic realization, but it was absolute: he was never getting over her.
He couldn't even touch another woman. He couldn't kiss another woman. He couldn't even stand the smell of someone else's perfume without feeling like he was betraying a promise he’d never even been allowed to make. His mind, his heart, his damn body—they were all locked on a woman who would never be his.
When he finally made it home, he chugged a glass of water, leaning heavy forearms against the kitchen island as he tried to breathe through the strangling, tight feeling in his lungs. But the tension only spiked as unwanted images flooded his mind—Jenn, wrapped up with Brax.
What was she doing right now? Sleeping? No, she never went to bed this early. Maybe meditating. Selfishly, he hoped she was doing anything in the world other than Brax.
He dragged himself into the shower, aggressively scrubbing his skin as if he could wash away the ghost of another woman's touch. But no matter how hard he scrubbed, a toxic residue of guilt clung to him. Which was ridiculous. He owed no one anything. He had every right to sleep with whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted.
Wet and exhausted, he tossed on a tank and a pair of sweats before collapsing onto the bed. His hand slid under his pillow out of pure muscle memory, his fingers curling around a soft piece of fabric.
Her scarf. The one she’d left in his car two years ago.
It had long since lost her scent, but it was still hers.
The memory of that night hit him like a physical blow. The pouring rain. Him lifting her into his arms so her designer heels wouldn't touch the filthy puddle water. And then, her razor-sharp words:
“No, Chris. I don’t need your help. I don’t need you.”
That should have been the moment he walked away for good. Instead, two years later, he was still clutching her scarf, holding it to his chest just to sleep every night.
One day, she’d have it all. The house she always dreamed of, the perfect husband, and she’d forget he ever existed. Meanwhile, Chris would remain trapped in time, living in the hollow phantom of what could have been.
He’d probably meet her children years from now and marvel at how perfect they were, just like her. But deep down, he’d always see the one tragic flaw in them: they weren't theirs.
After nearly an hour of staring at the ceiling, climbing out of bed and made his way toward the kitchen. He opened a drawer and pulled out a half-finished pack of cigarettes.
He rarely smoked anymore. it tasted too much like his youth and a past he’d tried hard to leave behind. But right now, anything was better than lying in bed, drowning in thoughts of her. He slipped a cigarette between his lips, snatched his lighter from the counter, and headed toward the balcony.
He hadn't even reached the sliding glass door when—
Ding.
He let out a heavy groan. Only two people in New York were obnoxious enough to show up unannounced at this hour: Matt or Nick. Or worse, both of them. He shoved the cigarette back into the pack, tossed it aside, and stormed toward the front entryway, rehearsing every curse word in his vocabulary. Maybe even getting his wrist ready for a punch.
He yanked the door open.
The anger died instantly in his throat, wrist dropped in place. He stared back at dark hair and wide doe eyes locked onto his, which were holding a look that was equal parts hesitant and desperate.
Maybe the saying wasn't bullshit after all.
If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's yours.
“Jenn, dear, we really need to go over what you want for the dress. If we don’t place an order for custom work now, it won’t be ready in time. I was thinking you’d look exquisite in custom Chanel…”
Brax’s mother went on and on about everything wedding-related.
Jenn sat across from her, totally zoned out. She tried to keep a smile pinned to her face, but it felt impossibly heavy to hold. If she was being completely honest with herself, she couldn’t give a damn about dress shopping.
Directly across the table, Brax ate quietly next to his father. Now and then, he’d glance up and offer her a polite smile. He’d been distant. Truthfully, they had both been distant with each other for weeks now. Ever since the engagement, everything between them had shifted.
Brax hadn't grown cold overnight. He was still gentle, still attentive, but there was a distinct barrier between them—not how a man should look at the woman he was about to marry.
Deep down, she knew exactly why.
Two weeks ago, she’d walked into his study without knocking. The instant he registered her presence, he had folded the sheet of paper in his hands and swept it into his desk drawer with unnerving speed.
She’d pretended not to notice.
But hours later, once he’d stepped out to take a business call, curiosity pulled her back. She’d opened the drawer and found the letter. Dated nearly three years ago. Signed simply, From Your Willow.
A bittersweet love letter from a time before their world had fractured. Jenn was about to slide it back into place when she noticed a hidden latch toward the back of the drawer. A small wooden keepsake box.
She opened it. Inside lay carefully preserved movie tickets, pressed flowers, printed photos, and postcards. Love notes. Willow wasn't an insignificant ex. She was the ex. The one that got away.
Jenn had never confronted him about it.
A truly devoted fiancée would have demanded answers, flared up with jealousy, or thrown a scene. But how could she? Braxton turned a blind eye to her history with Chris, even though she knew, deep down, he suspected something. They both knew this match was built on practicality rather than passion.
But the fire burning inside her was becoming impossible to extinguish. Every morning she woke up, a heavy wave of dread washed over her as the wedding date crept closer, making her feel more detached with each passing day.
As the dinner wrapped up, Brax’s mother showered her with sweet compliments right up to the front door. Jenn wasn't naive; she knew the woman’s affection was purely transactional. Marrying into her family was as strategic for Brax’s career as it was for her own social standing.
But standing there tonight, she found herself questioning everything. Was financial security really worth sacrificing her heart? If she swallowed her pride and returned to work at her father's company, she might be able to reclaim her inheritance.
Brax drove the entire way in silence. It was the longest they'd been alone together since their engagement party. When he turned toward his apartment instead of hers, she didn't object.
Against her better judgment, she wondered what Christopher was doing. Maybe he was with Matt and Nick. Maybe he was at some club, surrounded by women. Maybe one of them was touching him.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Stop.
The elevator ride to Brax's apartment passed just as quietly. He unlocked the front door and stepped inside first, eyeing her before asking if she was okay. She nodded, and with that, he disappeared down the hallway toward his bedroom.
Jenn remained standing by the front door. Motionless.
Before she could think herself out of it, adrenaline surged through her body; she hurried down the hallway, and Brax looked up as she appeared in his doorway, unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt.
A confused smile crossed his face. "Everything alright?"
Her heart hammered so violently she was certain he could hear it. Before she could lose her nerve, the words escaped.
"Do you love me?"
The smile slowly faded from Brax's face, replaced instead by quiet confusion. "What's with the sudden question, Jenn?"
"I'm asking because..." She chewed on the inside of her cheek. "We're getting married in less than a month, and it feels like we're barely speaking to each other anymore. You don't... see it?"
Brax straightened, abandoning his shirt cuffs altogether as he leaned against the dresser, giving her his full attention.
"You're unhappy?"
Jenn laughed quietly, though there wasn't an ounce of humor in it. "I think we're both unhappy."
Something uncertain flickered across his face before vanishing behind a cool mask. "You're telling me this now? A month before the wedding? The timing's... a bit fucked, Jenn."
"I'm not trying to blindside you. I just..." She exhaled, frustration lacing her words. "I just... I don't think you love me, Brax. I know this arrangement works on paper. We both know what we get out of it. And I haven't forgotten that you asked me if I was sure before we got engaged. I’m not playing the victim here." She felt herself spiraling, her composure slipping. "But we’re way past playing house and pretending this is normal."
A flicker of silent helplessness passed over Brax. She could tell he was just as done with this. Shaking his head, he closed the distance between them, putting his hands deep into his trousers' pockets.
"Do you want me to love you?"
"You love Willow."
He flinched as if she’d uttered something foul.
“Jenn, if you need clarity on that, all you have to do is ask,” he said, his voice dropping into a tight, defensive pitch. “I’ve told you before, she’s the past. You are my future. We have our whole lives ahead of us to build a life..." He paused, the words catching in his throat before he forced them out. “And... to fall in love.”
“If Willow walked through that door right now, and she wanted you back... and your parents approved of her, would you still be marrying me right now?"
Eyes closed, Brax exhaled through his nose. It wasn't annoyance. It was the sigh of someone who'd been cornered by a question they didn't know how to answer without hurting the other person.
"What do you want, Jenn?"
I want Chris.
"I just..." Her voice wavered. "I need to know I'm not setting up for failure or entering something that could end up in divorce. Once you get hold of the company, you wouldn’t even need me."
"You've been in your head," he said quietly, reaching out with a cautious slowness. His hands settled lightly on her waist, holding her with just enough pressure to give her room to pull away. "And so have I."
His thumbs brushed rhythmically against the fabric of her dress. "We've both let things get between us. But we can fix this." He leaned in, pressing a tentative, soft kiss against the side of her neck before resting his forehead against hers. "I want us to try, Jenn."
She didn't lean in.
Beneath his gentle words, she could feel the forced effort behind every move. To Brax, making this work was his only path forward unless he was willing to face his family's wrath. For her, calling off the wedding meant enduring the fallout entirely alone, stripped of every safety net she had left.
His hands began to move, trailing down her sides, but her body felt completely paralyzed, unable to fight off his touch. The quiet sound of her dress unzipping echoed as he guided her back onto the mattress, shifting his weight to straddle her.
Shadowed by the dim light of the room, he couldn't see the tears brimming in her eyes, threatening to spill over. Brax leaned down, pressing hot, desperate kisses up the column of her neck, searching for any intimacy.
When he tilted his head toward hers, Jenn subtly turned her face away, refusing to give him her lips. His fingers worked hastily at the top buttons of his shirt, opening it up before his hand began to slide down her thigh, reaching toward the hem of her dress. The touch sent a shudder through her entire body.
"I love Chris."
Brax froze instantly, his hand stopping dead in its tracks as her confession broke through a choked sob. Jenn squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to open them, but she could feel the heavy weight of his gaze scanning her face in the dark. He didn't need to ask to know which Chris she was referring to.
A quiet, breathless "fuck" escaped him. Without another word, he shifted off her, carefully pulling the hem of her dress back down over her legs to restore her modesty. The overhead light clicked on.
Jenn sat up, her vision blurring through the tears. Brax stood near the foot of the bed rigid, one hand pressed against his forehead visibly overwhelmed.
The tears spilled over freely now. “I’m sorry,” she choked out, her voice trembling violently. “Brax, I’m so sorry—”
He cut her off with a sharp tsk. “Don’t apologize, Jenn. Just... fuck. This screws everything up.”
Fresh sobs wracked her body, the sheer guilt and exhaustion pulling a low, helpless cry from her throat. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking as the reality of everything they had just shattered settled into the quiet room.
Brax let out a long, heavy exhale. The tension in his posture didn't disappear, but the sharp edge in his voice softened completely. He walked back over to the edge of the mattress and sat down next to her.
"Hey," he said quietly, voice surprisingly gentle. "Don't cry. Please. I'm not mad at you, Jenn. I promise. If I'm being honest... I think I already knew, deep down. Ever since the day I walked in on the two of you. But I thought you were trying to forget him."
Oh lord does he know.
“I tried so hard not to love him, Brax,” she whispered, wiping at the tears streaming down her face. “For my own sake, for yours, and to avoid ruining everything we agreed to, but—”
“Your feelings were too strong,” he finished softly for her. Jenn nodded as he took in her expression. “I don’t want you trapped in a marriage when our hearts are somewhere else. I could force myself through the motions, but I’d never ask you to do that for me.” Our hearts. Not just hers.
He told her to start at the beginning, so she did. She took him through every piece of the puzzle: the night he left her on her birthday, the fallout from the Armand deal, and the agonizing year and a half of silence that followed. She admitted that she’d been ready to walk down the aisle with him, right up until Chris walked back into her life and tore her whole world apart.
Brax listened thoughtfully.
Jenn swallowed. "What do we do now?"
"It’s not about what we do, Jenn,” Brax shook his head slowly, a faint, weary breath escaping him. “What do you want to do?" She stared blankly, overwhelmed by the sudden weight of her own freedom.
"Do you want to be with Chris?" His tone was completely free of judgment. Jenn gave a single nod, and a hesitant but genuine, gentle smile touched Brax’s lips. "Then we'll send you home."
It was all too good to be true. “But what about your company? Your parents will still be furious, and I’ll mess things up for you as well.”
“You're not wrong. It'll probably be one of the biggest messes either of us has ever made. " He shrugged, helplessly. "The press will have a field day. But if you're finally willing to take the risk, then I think I owe it to myself to do the same."
Braxton would be a good husband one day, just not hers.
"You should go,” Brax nodded toward the bedroom door. “I’ll sort things out and come back tomorrow. We’ll have a proper conversation about what we're going to do.”
It felt like a thousand pounds were lifted off her. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, emotion rising up. Brax hugged her back without hesitation.
It was a goodbye.
"Thank you," she whispered through tears. "And again, I'm so sorry."
"I know."
When they finally pulled apart, both of them looked lighter than they had only minutes earlier. Jenn wiped at her cheeks and walked toward the front door. Her hand had just reached the handle when she stopped.
"Brax?"
He looked up.
"Call her." She didn't have to say her name for him to understand. "Figure it out. I want to see you happy too. You're a good man, Braxton Miller."
He rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "I'll think about it."
With that, she opened the apartment door and walked out. A yellow cab pulled to the curb, and she gave the driver the address.
The raw weight of reality finally began to crush her. She had just called off her wedding. What was she going to tell her family? The press? Within hours, the entire city would be buzzing with the scandal. They would have to cancel every vendor, revoke every reservation, and undo months of preparation.
But none of that really mattered.
She had thirty minutes in the back of the car. Thirty minutes to figure out how to look the man she loved in the eye and admit he had been right all along. Thirty minutes to torture herself with the terrifying possibility that she was already too late.
What if he doesn't want me anymore? The thought hit her gut like a lead weight. He had told her to go be happy and walked away. What if he had actually meant it?
The cab pulled to a stop outside the building, and her heartbeat doubled. Just be calm. She repeated to herself.
She approached the concierge desk. "Hello, I'm here for Mr. Srurniolo."
The concierge looked up from his monitor, smiling, and told her she was approved to go up. He never removed her from his approve list. Her heart did a leap.
As the elevator ascended, she fixed her face and herself. Putting on as much confidence on her face as she could. Get it together.
Suddenly, she was staring at his door. Refusing to let her brain catch up, she hit the buzzer just once, entirely lacking the courage to do it again.
It swung wide open.
Chris was standing there in a white vest and sweats, looking effortlessly devastating. He had a dark scowl on his face, a string of curses clearly resting on the tip of his tongue, but he froze the moment he realized it was her.
Disbelief softened his harsh features. "Jenn?"
Before she could lose her nerve, she stepped past him. Chris instinctively shifted back, making room as she walked over the threshold and straight into the center of his living room, coming to a dead halt.
Behind her, she heard the soft click of the front door shutting. His heavy footsteps followed, rushing to close the distance before he stopped just a few feet away.
"What's going on? Are you—"
"You win," she blurted out, slicing right through his question.
“What?”
"I’ve always hated feeling like I was losing to you," she began, her throat tightening so much it hurt to get the words out. "It’s been like that since the second you stepped into my life. I hated that some intern could make my father prouder than I ever could. I spent my whole life chasing his validation, while you just... had it."
Chris stood completely still, his entire body going rigid. "Jenn, what are you saying right now?"
It was now or never.
"I’m saying that I hated you for a long time. Deep down," she confessed, her voice cracking slightly. "You built something real out of yourself while I was just spinning my wheels, doing whatever my parents demanded of me. But I finally get it now. I can’t hate you for that. I can’t control my father's favoritism toward you, and I can't blame you for my own insecurities, either."
A strained beat of silence stretched between them. Chris ran a heavy hand over his face, a sudden surge of frustration radiating off him. He wasn't angry at her. She knew it.
"You think this was about winning?" Chris demanded, his tone strained, rough around the edges. He took a heavy step toward her, his jaw clenching hard. "Jenn, I never gave a damn about your father's approval. I worked myself to the bone because I was trying to be worthy of you."
Worthy of you. The words rang in her ears, spreading through her chest.
"Fuck, baby... don’t ever feel insecure because of me. I wanted nothing more than to see you succeed—you have to know that," he rasped, taking another step. "I respect your dad, and I can’t pretend he hasn’t done a lot for me. But if he’s hurting you and making you feel like shit? I won’t hesitate for a second to fuck him over. The only fucking approval I’ve ever wanted was from you."
Jenn swallowed hard. There was no hesitation in his eyes, just pure, uncompromising devotion to her. She was certain this version of Chris would stab a man ruthlessly if he had to for her.
"He didn't hurt me, Chris," she whispered, her voice trembling as she finally let the rest of the truth spill out. "I hurt myself trying to fit into a life that wasn't mine." She reached out, her fingers lightly brushing against the hem of his shirt. "I called off the wedding tonight."
His gaze darkened. “Why?”
She chose her next words with deliberate care. “Because... I think from the very moment you told me you loved me, I knew I loved you too, far more than I could ever hate you.”
“So you’re not engaged anymore?” Satisfaction laced his voice.
She shook her head softly, her eyes locked onto his. He looked like a predator locked onto its prey—every muscle coiled, waiting for the exact right moment to strike. It felt as though one wrong move would cause him to pounce and consume her whole. She'd never felt more alive.
“Then take off that fucking ring.”
Jenn’s breath hitched in her throat. The ring meant nothing to her as she lifted her left hand. Fingers trembled slightly as she slid the diamond off her finger, cutting the final thread tying her to a life she never wanted.
The band barely landed on the Island before Chris spun her around, pinned her, and crashed his mouth against hers so fast and hard it knocked the breath straight from her lungs.
ceyana’s note: what if i disappeared! i love you, mwah <3
⤷ masterlist ⟶ previous scene
⤷ cw . . . suggestive sexual dialogue, relationship conflict, emotional infidelity, and angst . . .
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There's an old saying: If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's yours. If it doesn't, it never was.
That had become Christopher's entire philosophy the day he walked away from Jenn in her dressing room, even if it sounded like bullshit. It had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He'd chosen to walk away from the one thing he wanted most. It had been a month since that day.
He hadn't seen her once since.
But avoiding her didn't mean escaping her.
The engagement had become one of the biggest topics in New York's social circles. Every charity gala, every business dinner, every magazine seemed to mention the upcoming Seinee-Miller wedding.
In one month, Jenevieve Miller, this June. The ceremony was set to take place in London, at the Miller family's sprawling estate. Chris tried not to think about it.
But that was like telling a fucking addict to quit overnight.
Nick and Matt had been showing up at his penthouse far more often than usual. Hell, the two idiots had practically moved in for a night earlier that week because they'd convinced themselves he was one bad evening away from drinking himself into oblivion.
As if he were that pathetic—he was.
Unfortunately, Matt had also done what Matt always did, and he’d told Elena everything about him and Jenn. Chris hadn't appreciated that in the slightest, but then again, Matt had never been capable of keeping anything from his wife. They shared one brain cell between them, and apparently it came with zero privacy.
The next morning, Elena had shown up carrying a cake. Written across the icing, in aggressively cheerful lettering, were the words: “What did the icing say to the broken heart? Don't worry, I've got you covered!”
He wanted to throw the damn thing in the trash.
Instead, he'd accepted it because upsetting Elena inevitably meant dealing with a grumpy, overprotective Matt afterward for upsetting his wife.
He’d always envied Matt in that sense. He had loved Elena since they were teenagers, helping her become the woman she was while making himself a man, and once he decided he was going to keep her, he didn’t let go.
Tonight was the first night in weeks that he hadn't locked himself inside his penthouse or drowned the silence in some quiet neighborhood bar.
Instead, he was standing in one of Manhattan's most exclusive clubs.
It wasn't his scene, but in his mind it was progress.
He hadn't slept with anyone in years, and at this rate, he was pretty sure his own dick was going to sue him for neglect. It wasn't for lack of options, and fairly speaking, he was far from a virgin. His college days and the years right after had proven he had plenty. But ever since a certain doe-eyed woman entered his world, he’d turned down every single one of them.
Unconsciously, he’d spent years waiting for someone who had never even been his. Falling in love with her slowly meant realizing, just as slowly, that neither his heart nor his body would ever turn on for anyone else.
Maybe tonight was the night he finally stopped clinging to a future that no longer existed. Maybe tonight he’d prove to himself that he could want someone else—that he could touch someone else—and finally let that stubborn rose in his heart wilt and die, to let it go.
A woman stepped up beside him, effortlessly attractive and clearly in her early twenties. Her voice slid over him, thick with sultry intent.
“You look pretty lonely for a guy that handsome,” she purred, leaning into his space. “What’s your line of work? You look important. Finance?”
“Security.” He answered plainly.
“Bodyguard?”
“CEO.”
Her eyes flashed with instant, heightened interest. Chris knew better than to let some young socialite entertain visions of becoming a billionaire’s wife, but small talk had never been his strong suit. He’d never needed it when quick, dangerous banter with her was all he ever craved.
Fuck, stop thinking about her.
The woman shifted closer, her fingers lightly trailing along the edge of the bar, her gaze dropping to his lips before sweeping back up. "You know... this floor is getting a little too loud to hear myself think," she murmured, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I hear the private suites upstairs are much quieter. Why don't we get out of this crowd and see if you're as commanding behind closed doors?"
He closed his eyes for a split second, taking a heavy breath. Just do it. Get over her.
"Fine," he grunted, his voice tight. "Lead the way."
A victorious smile flashed across her face as she took his hand, guiding him away toward the suites. The moment the door shut behind them, closing out the dim noise of the crowd, she didn't waste a second.
Her hands slid up his chest, resting against his shoulders as she pressed him back against the wall. Before he could even brace himself, her lips dragged across the skin of his jawline, dipping lower to press soft kisses against his neck.
She was sweet and warm, and felt entirely wrong.
Chris stood completely still, his hands resting flat against the wall on either side of her. His body was reacting out of sheer instinct, but every nerve ending in his brain felt completely numb. The touch was there, the friction was there, but the spark was dead on arrival.
“Let's get you out of these,” she whispered, her hands moving to his shirt as she nudged him backward onto the edge of the mattress. Stepping between his knees, her fingers made quick work of his top buttons before trailing down to the buckle of his belt.
“Enough.” Chris’s hand shot out to her wrist.
She froze, her eyes flashing with a mix of sharp frustration and sudden vulnerability. “What? We were just getting started. Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet now?” She tried to soften her voice, leaning in to kiss his jaw again, attempting to coax him back into the mood. “Let me make it good for you, sir.”
Chris didn't budge. Tense and restless, he looked up at her, really looking at her this time, past the sultry smile. He noticed the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the precision in how she moved, and the complete detachment in her eyes.
This was her job.
“You’re not even aroused,” Chris said flatly.
Her expression crumbled, the alluring facade stripping away to reveal genuine embarrassment and hurt. She pulled her wrist from his grip, her gaze dropping to the floor, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Chris rubbed a hand over his face, a sudden wave of exhaustion hitting him. He reached into his inner suit pocket, pulled out his wallet, and placed a stack of hundred-dollar bills on the nightstand.
“Sorry, dear. Get home safe.” He straightened his shirt and left the room.
The cool night air hit him the second he stepped out of the venue, but it did nothing to clear the heavy, suffocating weight in his chest.
Once he was driving, a profound, bitter disgust settled deep in his gut at himself. He had actually thought he could force it. Believed that if he just threw himself into a bed with a beautiful stranger, he could burn away the ghost of the woman who'd haunted him for years.
It was a pathetic realization, but it was absolute: he was never getting over her.
He couldn't even touch another woman. He couldn't kiss another woman. He couldn't even stand the smell of someone else's perfume without feeling like he was betraying a promise he’d never even been allowed to make. His mind, his heart, his damn body—they were all locked on a woman who would never be his.
When he finally made it home, he chugged a glass of water, leaning heavy forearms against the kitchen island as he tried to breathe through the strangling, tight feeling in his lungs. But the tension only spiked as unwanted images flooded his mind—Jenn, wrapped up with Brax.
What was she doing right now? Sleeping? No, she never went to bed this early. Maybe meditating. Selfishly, he hoped she was doing anything in the world other than Brax.
He dragged himself into the shower, aggressively scrubbing his skin as if he could wash away the ghost of another woman's touch. But no matter how hard he scrubbed, a toxic residue of guilt clung to him. Which was ridiculous. He owed no one anything. He had every right to sleep with whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted.
Wet and exhausted, he tossed on a tank and a pair of sweats before collapsing onto the bed. His hand slid under his pillow out of pure muscle memory, his fingers curling around a soft piece of fabric.
Her scarf. The one she’d left in his car two years ago.
It had long since lost her scent, but it was still hers.
The memory of that night hit him like a physical blow. The pouring rain. Him lifting her into his arms so her designer heels wouldn't touch the filthy puddle water. And then, her razor-sharp words:
“No, Chris. I don’t need your help. I don’t need you.”
That should have been the moment he walked away for good. Instead, two years later, he was still clutching her scarf, holding it to his chest just to sleep every night.
One day, she’d have it all. The house she always dreamed of, the perfect husband, and she’d forget he ever existed. Meanwhile, Chris would remain trapped in time, living in the hollow phantom of what could have been.
He’d probably meet her children years from now and marvel at how perfect they were, just like her. But deep down, he’d always see the one tragic flaw in them: they weren't theirs.
After nearly an hour of staring at the ceiling, climbing out of bed and made his way toward the kitchen. He opened a drawer and pulled out a half-finished pack of cigarettes.
He rarely smoked anymore. it tasted too much like his youth and a past he’d tried hard to leave behind. But right now, anything was better than lying in bed, drowning in thoughts of her. He slipped a cigarette between his lips, snatched his lighter from the counter, and headed toward the balcony.
He hadn't even reached the sliding glass door when—
Ding.
He let out a heavy groan. Only two people in New York were obnoxious enough to show up unannounced at this hour: Matt or Nick. Or worse, both of them. He shoved the cigarette back into the pack, tossed it aside, and stormed toward the front entryway, rehearsing every curse word in his vocabulary. Maybe even getting his wrist ready for a punch.
He yanked the door open.
The anger died instantly in his throat, wrist dropped in place. He stared back at dark hair and wide doe eyes locked onto his, which were holding a look that was equal parts hesitant and desperate.
Maybe the saying wasn't bullshit after all.
If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's yours.
“Jenn, dear, we really need to go over what you want for the dress. If we don’t place an order for custom work now, it won’t be ready in time. I was thinking you’d look exquisite in custom Chanel…”
Brax’s mother went on and on about everything wedding-related.
Jenn sat across from her, totally zoned out. She tried to keep a smile pinned to her face, but it felt impossibly heavy to hold. If she was being completely honest with herself, she couldn’t give a damn about dress shopping.
Directly across the table, Brax ate quietly next to his father. Now and then, he’d glance up and offer her a polite smile. He’d been distant. Truthfully, they had both been distant with each other for weeks now. Ever since the engagement, everything between them had shifted.
Brax hadn't grown cold overnight. He was still gentle, still attentive, but there was a distinct barrier between them—not how a man should look at the woman he was about to marry.
Deep down, she knew exactly why.
Two weeks ago, she’d walked into his study without knocking. The instant he registered her presence, he had folded the sheet of paper in his hands and swept it into his desk drawer with unnerving speed.
She’d pretended not to notice.
But hours later, once he’d stepped out to take a business call, curiosity pulled her back. She’d opened the drawer and found the letter. Dated nearly three years ago. Signed simply, From Your Willow.
A bittersweet love letter from a time before their world had fractured. Jenn was about to slide it back into place when she noticed a hidden latch toward the back of the drawer. A small wooden keepsake box.
She opened it. Inside lay carefully preserved movie tickets, pressed flowers, printed photos, and postcards. Love notes. Willow wasn't an insignificant ex. She was the ex. The one that got away.
Jenn had never confronted him about it.
A truly devoted fiancée would have demanded answers, flared up with jealousy, or thrown a scene. But how could she? Braxton turned a blind eye to her history with Chris, even though she knew, deep down, he suspected something. They both knew this match was built on practicality rather than passion.
But the fire burning inside her was becoming impossible to extinguish. Every morning she woke up, a heavy wave of dread washed over her as the wedding date crept closer, making her feel more detached with each passing day.
As the dinner wrapped up, Brax’s mother showered her with sweet compliments right up to the front door. Jenn wasn't naive; she knew the woman’s affection was purely transactional. Marrying into her family was as strategic for Brax’s career as it was for her own social standing.
But standing there tonight, she found herself questioning everything. Was financial security really worth sacrificing her heart? If she swallowed her pride and returned to work at her father's company, she might be able to reclaim her inheritance.
Brax drove the entire way in silence. It was the longest they'd been alone together since their engagement party. When he turned toward his apartment instead of hers, she didn't object.
Against her better judgment, she wondered what Christopher was doing. Maybe he was with Matt and Nick. Maybe he was at some club, surrounded by women. Maybe one of them was touching him.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Stop.
The elevator ride to Brax's apartment passed just as quietly. He unlocked the front door and stepped inside first, eyeing her before asking if she was okay. She nodded, and with that, he disappeared down the hallway toward his bedroom.
Jenn remained standing by the front door. Motionless.
Before she could think herself out of it, adrenaline surged through her body; she hurried down the hallway, and Brax looked up as she appeared in his doorway, unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt.
A confused smile crossed his face. "Everything alright?"
Her heart hammered so violently she was certain he could hear it. Before she could lose her nerve, the words escaped.
"Do you love me?"
The smile slowly faded from Brax's face, replaced instead by quiet confusion. "What's with the sudden question, Jenn?"
"I'm asking because..." She chewed on the inside of her cheek. "We're getting married in less than a month, and it feels like we're barely speaking to each other anymore. You don't... see it?"
Brax straightened, abandoning his shirt cuffs altogether as he leaned against the dresser, giving her his full attention.
"You're unhappy?"
Jenn laughed quietly, though there wasn't an ounce of humor in it. "I think we're both unhappy."
Something uncertain flickered across his face before vanishing behind a cool mask. "You're telling me this now? A month before the wedding? The timing's... a bit fucked, Jenn."
"I'm not trying to blindside you. I just..." She exhaled, frustration lacing her words. "I just... I don't think you love me, Brax. I know this arrangement works on paper. We both know what we get out of it. And I haven't forgotten that you asked me if I was sure before we got engaged. I’m not playing the victim here." She felt herself spiraling, her composure slipping. "But we’re way past playing house and pretending this is normal."
A flicker of silent helplessness passed over Brax. She could tell he was just as done with this. Shaking his head, he closed the distance between them, putting his hands deep into his trousers' pockets.
"Do you want me to love you?"
"You love Willow."
He flinched as if she’d uttered something foul.
“Jenn, if you need clarity on that, all you have to do is ask,” he said, his voice dropping into a tight, defensive pitch. “I’ve told you before, she’s the past. You are my future. We have our whole lives ahead of us to build a life..." He paused, the words catching in his throat before he forced them out. “And... to fall in love.”
“If Willow walked through that door right now, and she wanted you back... and your parents approved of her, would you still be marrying me right now?"
Eyes closed, Brax exhaled through his nose. It wasn't annoyance. It was the sigh of someone who'd been cornered by a question they didn't know how to answer without hurting the other person.
"What do you want, Jenn?"
I want Chris.
"I just..." Her voice wavered. "I need to know I'm not setting up for failure or entering something that could end up in divorce. Once you get hold of the company, you wouldn’t even need me."
"You've been in your head," he said quietly, reaching out with a cautious slowness. His hands settled lightly on her waist, holding her with just enough pressure to give her room to pull away. "And so have I."
His thumbs brushed rhythmically against the fabric of her dress. "We've both let things get between us. But we can fix this." He leaned in, pressing a tentative, soft kiss against the side of her neck before resting his forehead against hers. "I want us to try, Jenn."
She didn't lean in.
Beneath his gentle words, she could feel the forced effort behind every move. To Brax, making this work was his only path forward unless he was willing to face his family's wrath. For her, calling off the wedding meant enduring the fallout entirely alone, stripped of every safety net she had left.
His hands began to move, trailing down her sides, but her body felt completely paralyzed, unable to fight off his touch. The quiet sound of her dress unzipping echoed as he guided her back onto the mattress, shifting his weight to straddle her.
Shadowed by the dim light of the room, he couldn't see the tears brimming in her eyes, threatening to spill over. Brax leaned down, pressing hot, desperate kisses up the column of her neck, searching for any intimacy.
When he tilted his head toward hers, Jenn subtly turned her face away, refusing to give him her lips. His fingers worked hastily at the top buttons of his shirt, opening it up before his hand began to slide down her thigh, reaching toward the hem of her dress. The touch sent a shudder through her entire body.
"I love Chris."
Brax froze instantly, his hand stopping dead in its tracks as her confession broke through a choked sob. Jenn squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to open them, but she could feel the heavy weight of his gaze scanning her face in the dark. He didn't need to ask to know which Chris she was referring to.
A quiet, breathless "fuck" escaped him. Without another word, he shifted off her, carefully pulling the hem of her dress back down over her legs to restore her modesty. The overhead light clicked on.
Jenn sat up, her vision blurring through the tears. Brax stood near the foot of the bed rigid, one hand pressed against his forehead visibly overwhelmed.
The tears spilled over freely now. “I’m sorry,” she choked out, her voice trembling violently. “Brax, I’m so sorry—”
He cut her off with a sharp tsk. “Don’t apologize, Jenn. Just... fuck. This screws everything up.”
Fresh sobs wracked her body, the sheer guilt and exhaustion pulling a low, helpless cry from her throat. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking as the reality of everything they had just shattered settled into the quiet room.
Brax let out a long, heavy exhale. The tension in his posture didn't disappear, but the sharp edge in his voice softened completely. He walked back over to the edge of the mattress and sat down next to her.
"Hey," he said quietly, voice surprisingly gentle. "Don't cry. Please. I'm not mad at you, Jenn. I promise. If I'm being honest... I think I already knew, deep down. Ever since the day I walked in on the two of you. But I thought you were trying to forget him."
Oh lord does he know.
“I tried so hard not to love him, Brax,” she whispered, wiping at the tears streaming down her face. “For my own sake, for yours, and to avoid ruining everything we agreed to, but—”
“Your feelings were too strong,” he finished softly for her. Jenn nodded as he took in her expression. “I don’t want you trapped in a marriage when our hearts are somewhere else. I could force myself through the motions, but I’d never ask you to do that for me.” Our hearts. Not just hers.
He told her to start at the beginning, so she did. She took him through every piece of the puzzle: the night he left her on her birthday, the fallout from the Armand deal, and the agonizing year and a half of silence that followed. She admitted that she’d been ready to walk down the aisle with him, right up until Chris walked back into her life and tore her whole world apart.
Brax listened thoughtfully.
Jenn swallowed. "What do we do now?"
"It’s not about what we do, Jenn,” Brax shook his head slowly, a faint, weary breath escaping him. “What do you want to do?" She stared blankly, overwhelmed by the sudden weight of her own freedom.
"Do you want to be with Chris?" His tone was completely free of judgment. Jenn gave a single nod, and a hesitant but genuine, gentle smile touched Brax’s lips. "Then we'll send you home."
It was all too good to be true. “But what about your company? Your parents will still be furious, and I’ll mess things up for you as well.”
“You're not wrong. It'll probably be one of the biggest messes either of us has ever made. " He shrugged, helplessly. "The press will have a field day. But if you're finally willing to take the risk, then I think I owe it to myself to do the same."
Braxton would be a good husband one day, just not hers.
"You should go,” Brax nodded toward the bedroom door. “I’ll sort things out and come back tomorrow. We’ll have a proper conversation about what we're going to do.”
It felt like a thousand pounds were lifted off her. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, emotion rising up. Brax hugged her back without hesitation.
It was a goodbye.
"Thank you," she whispered through tears. "And again, I'm so sorry."
"I know."
When they finally pulled apart, both of them looked lighter than they had only minutes earlier. Jenn wiped at her cheeks and walked toward the front door. Her hand had just reached the handle when she stopped.
"Brax?"
He looked up.
"Call her." She didn't have to say her name for him to understand. "Figure it out. I want to see you happy too. You're a good man, Braxton Miller."
He rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "I'll think about it."
With that, she opened the apartment door and walked out. A yellow cab pulled to the curb, and she gave the driver the address.
The raw weight of reality finally began to crush her. She had just called off her wedding. What was she going to tell her family? The press? Within hours, the entire city would be buzzing with the scandal. They would have to cancel every vendor, revoke every reservation, and undo months of preparation.
But none of that really mattered.
She had thirty minutes in the back of the car. Thirty minutes to figure out how to look the man she loved in the eye and admit he had been right all along. Thirty minutes to torture herself with the terrifying possibility that she was already too late.
What if he doesn't want me anymore? The thought hit her gut like a lead weight. He had told her to go be happy and walked away. What if he had actually meant it?
The cab pulled to a stop outside the building, and her heartbeat doubled. Just be calm. She repeated to herself.
She approached the concierge desk. "Hello, I'm here for Mr. Srurniolo."
The concierge looked up from his monitor, smiling, and told her she was approved to go up. He never removed her from his approve list. Her heart did a leap.
As the elevator ascended, she fixed her face and herself. Putting on as much confidence on her face as she could. Get it together.
Suddenly, she was staring at his door. Refusing to let her brain catch up, she hit the buzzer just once, entirely lacking the courage to do it again.
It swung wide open.
Chris was standing there in a white vest and sweats, looking effortlessly devastating. He had a dark scowl on his face, a string of curses clearly resting on the tip of his tongue, but he froze the moment he realized it was her.
Disbelief softened his harsh features. "Jenn?"
Before she could lose her nerve, she stepped past him. Chris instinctively shifted back, making room as she walked over the threshold and straight into the center of his living room, coming to a dead halt.
Behind her, she heard the soft click of the front door shutting. His heavy footsteps followed, rushing to close the distance before he stopped just a few feet away.
"What's going on? Are you—"
"You win," she blurted out, slicing right through his question.
“What?”
"I’ve always hated feeling like I was losing to you," she began, her throat tightening so much it hurt to get the words out. "It’s been like that since the second you stepped into my life. I hated that some intern could make my father prouder than I ever could. I spent my whole life chasing his validation, while you just... had it."
Chris stood completely still, his entire body going rigid. "Jenn, what are you saying right now?"
It was now or never.
"I’m saying that I hated you for a long time. Deep down," she confessed, her voice cracking slightly. "You built something real out of yourself while I was just spinning my wheels, doing whatever my parents demanded of me. But I finally get it now. I can’t hate you for that. I can’t control my father's favoritism toward you, and I can't blame you for my own insecurities, either."
A strained beat of silence stretched between them. Chris ran a heavy hand over his face, a sudden surge of frustration radiating off him. He wasn't angry at her. She knew it.
"You think this was about winning?" Chris demanded, his tone strained, rough around the edges. He took a heavy step toward her, his jaw clenching hard. "Jenn, I never gave a damn about your father's approval. I worked myself to the bone because I was trying to be worthy of you."
Worthy of you. The words rang in her ears, spreading through her chest.
"Fuck, baby... don’t ever feel insecure because of me. I wanted nothing more than to see you succeed—you have to know that," he rasped, taking another step. "I respect your dad, and I can’t pretend he hasn’t done a lot for me. But if he’s hurting you and making you feel like shit? I won’t hesitate for a second to fuck him over. The only fucking approval I’ve ever wanted was from you."
Jenn swallowed hard. There was no hesitation in his eyes, just pure, uncompromising devotion to her. She was certain this version of Chris would stab a man ruthlessly if he had to for her.
"He didn't hurt me, Chris," she whispered, her voice trembling as she finally let the rest of the truth spill out. "I hurt myself trying to fit into a life that wasn't mine." She reached out, her fingers lightly brushing against the hem of his shirt. "I called off the wedding tonight."
His gaze darkened. “Why?”
She chose her next words with deliberate care. “Because... I think from the very moment you told me you loved me, I knew I loved you too, far more than I could ever hate you.”
“So you’re not engaged anymore?” Satisfaction laced his voice.
She shook her head softly, her eyes locked onto his. He looked like a predator locked onto its prey—every muscle coiled, waiting for the exact right moment to strike. It felt as though one wrong move would cause him to pounce and consume her whole. She'd never felt more alive.
“Then take off that fucking ring.”
Jenn’s breath hitched in her throat. The ring meant nothing to her as she lifted her left hand. Fingers trembled slightly as she slid the diamond off her finger, cutting the final thread tying her to a life she never wanted.
The band barely landed on the Island before Chris spun her around, pinned her, and crashed his mouth against hers so fast and hard it knocked the breath straight from her lungs.
ceyana’s note: what if i disappeared! i love you, mwah <3
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I think Jenn herself might crash the wedding lmao esp if she knows another woman is getting her heart broken 🥹 ( I also want her to grow her hair long for Chris)
she definitely has ideas to grow it out !! i love all these theories, but i fear... things might happen a bit differently, hahah <33
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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