Scarlett's POV
I want him to suffer.
The woman sitting across from me dabs her eyes with a tissue that probably costs more than most people's monthly rent. Her mascara is running, creating black rivers down her perfectly made-up face. Diamond earrings catch the afternoon light streaming through my office windows. Her Chanel suit is rumpled from crying.
She looks broken. Destroyed. Like her whole world just ended.
I feel nothing.
This is what I've become. A woman who looks at someone else's pain and sees only dollar signs. A woman who's built a million-dollar business on the rubble of failed relationships. A woman who stopped believing in love the day it destroyed her.
Mrs. Chen, I say, keeping my voice calm and professional. I've perfected this tone over three years. Sympathetic enough to seem human, detached enough to stay clinical. Revenge is expensive. And it rarely gives people the closure they think it will. Are you sure that's the route you want to take?
She nods so hard her diamond earrings shake. Each one probably worth more than my first car. He cheated on me with my yoga instructor. My yoga instructor! Everyone at the club knows. I can't show my face anywhere. The whispers follow me. Her voice cracks with genuine anguish. I want him ruined the way he ruined me.
I lean back in my leather chair the expensive one I bought when my first big client paid me a hundred thousand dollars to orchestrate her divorce. Two hundred thousand dollars. That's my fee for what you're asking. I'll create an exit strategy that destroys his reputation while keeping yours spotless. You'll be the sympathetic victim. He'll be the villain everyone hates. Within six months, you'll be divorced, wealthy, and every door that closed will open again.
Her tears stop immediately. Just like that. Dry. When can you start?
Money talks. It always does. Love might be a lie, but capitalism is brutally honest.
I'll have my assistant send you the contract by end of business today. I stand, signaling the meeting is over. She takes the hint. Within three months, Mrs. Chen, your husband will wish he'd never met that yoga instructor. Within six months, you'll own half of everything he has. And within a year, you'll be thanking me.
She practically floats out of my office, tears forgotten, already imagining her future.
The moment the door clicks shut, I let out a long breath and sink back into my chair. This is my life now. Scarlett Monroe, the breakup strategist. The woman Manhattan's elite call when they want to end their marriages without the mess. I'm expensive, I'm discreet, and I'm very, very good at what I do.
I'm also completely dead inside. But that's the price of survival.
My office phone buzzes. Devon's voice comes through the speaker, tinged with concern. Scarlett, I have those three files you requested. Should I bring them in now or do you need a minute?
Devon. My assistant, my friend, the only person besides my sister Emma who knows the truth about who I really am. Who I used to be.
Give me five minutes, I say. Then come in.
I use those five minutes to stare out at the Manhattan skyline. Tribeca spreads below me all glass and steel and money. Three years ago, I couldn't have afforded to set foot in this neighborhood. Now I own a corner office with a view that makes other people jealous.
It should feel like winning.
It feels like surviving.
Devon knocks and enters without waiting for permission. He's carrying a stack of manila folders potential new clients. He sets them on my desk with the careful precision he brings to everything. At twenty-six, he's brilliant with technology, ruthlessly efficient, and the only person I trust completely.
Three new potential clients, he says, settling into the chair Mrs. Chen just vacated. All high-profile. All complicated. All willing to pay premium rates for your particular expertise.
I flip open the first folder. A senator's wife who wants out of her marriage before his next campaign. Messy timing, but doable. The second folder: a tech CEO who married the wrong woman and needs to extract himself before his company goes public. Standard fare.
I reach for the third folder.
My hands freeze.
The name on the tab makes my heart stop, then race, then stop again.
Adrian Blackwell.
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
The folder slips from my fingers. Papers scatter across my desk. Devon's eyes widen.
Scarlett? What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost.
I have. The ghost that's haunted me for three years. The ghost I've been running from while simultaneously hoping to find. The ghost that destroyed Lettie Morgan and created Scarlett Monroe.
Where did this come from? My voice sounds strange even to my own ears. Hollow. Distant. Like it's coming from underwater.
His assistant called this morning around nine. Said Mr. Blackwell is looking for a breakup strategist. Needs a consultation as soon as possible. Willing to pay premium rates for discretion. Devon leans forward, studying my face with growing concern. Scarlett, talk to me. What's going on? Who is Adrian Blackwell to you?
Everyone. Everything. The man who taught me what love felt like. The man who taught me that love is a weapon people use to destroy you.
I pick up the scattered papers with trembling hands. There's a photo of him clipped inside the folder. Professional headshot. Corporate and cold.
Adrian Blackwell. Thirty-one years old. CEO of Blackwell Industries. Billionaire. Engaged to Victoria Ashford, daughter of the Ashford banking empire.
He looks exactly the same as I remember. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Those green eyes that used to make me believe in forever. Three years have made him even more handsome, if that's possible. More polished. More powerful.
More untouchable.
Scarlett. Devon's voice is sharp now. Demanding. You're scaring me. Who is he?
I close the file carefully. Set it aside like it might explode. Maybe it will. Maybe this is the universe's way of testing whether I've truly moved on or if I'm still that broken girl who lost everything.
Nobody, I lie. The lie tastes like ash. Just another rich man who wants to end his engagement without scandal.
Don't lie to me. We've worked together for two years. I know when you're lying. Devon crosses his arms. This man means something to you. Something big. So I'll ask again: who is Adrian Blackwell?
I could tell him. Should tell him. Devon deserves the truth.
But saying it out loud makes it real. Makes this moment real. Makes the fact that Adrian Blackwell just walked back into my life three years, two months, and fourteen days after he walked out undeniably, terrifyingly real.
He's I start. Stop. Try again. Three years ago, before Scarlett Monroe existed, there was a girl named Charlotte Morgan. Everyone called her Lettie. She was naive and hopeful and believed in fairy tales. She met a man at a charity gala. He was handsome and charming and made her feel special. They dated for six months. She fell completely, stupidly, irrevocably in love.
Devon's eyes widen. He's putting the pieces together.
And then one night, I continue, my voice mechanical now, he invited her to a party at his penthouse. She went. She wore her best dress borrowed from her sister because she couldn't afford anything nice. She walked into that penthouse full of Manhattan's elite and realized she didn't belong. But he was there, and when he smiled at her, she felt like she belonged anyway.
Scarlett
Then he disappeared. Just left. No explanation. No goodbye. She stood there alone while everyone stared and whispered. 'The charity case who thought she could land a Blackwell.' 'How embarrassing.' 'Did she really think he was serious?' The memories are acid in my throat. She went home that night and cried. The next day, she got fired from her job at a nonprofit. His family had connections to her donors. Within a week, she couldn't pay her rent. Within two weeks, she discovered she was pregnant.
Devon's face goes pale. Oh my God.
Eight weeks later, she miscarried. Alone in a hospital bathroom. No money. No job. No boyfriend who supposedly loved her. Just blood and pain and the death of everything she thought her life would be. I meet Devon's eyes. That girl Lettie Morgan she died that day too. And Scarlett Monroe was born from what was left.
Silence fills my office.
Adrian Blackwell is the man who destroyed Lettie Morgan, I say quietly. And now he wants to hire Scarlett Monroe to help him end his engagement. The universe has a twisted sense of humor.
You're not taking this case. Devon's voice is firm. Absolutely not. I'll refer him to another firm. Hell, I'll call him right now and tell him we're booked solid
No.
Devon stops. What?
Don't refer him anywhere. Don't tell him we're booked. I pull the file toward me. Stare at Adrian's photo. At the man who taught me that love is a lie and trust is for fools. Schedule the consultation. Tomorrow if he's available. I'll take the case.
Are you insane? Scarlett, this man destroyed you. Why would you
Because I want him to feel what I felt. The words come out cold. Certain. I want him to know what it's like to be destroyed by someone you trust. Someone you love. Someone you think will save you.
Devon is staring at me like I'm a stranger. This is a terrible idea.
Probably. But I'm doing it anyway.
After Devon leaves reluctantly, with promises to be on standby in case I change my mindI sit alone with Adrian's file.
Tomorrow at three PM, Adrian Blackwell will walk into this office. He'll see Scarlett Monroe: platinum blonde, successful businesswoman, completely in control.
He won't see Lettie Morgan. Brown-haired, broken-hearted, naive.
He won't recognize me at all.
And that's perfect.
Because the breakup strategist is about to strategize the most important breakup of her life: Adrian Blackwell's heart from his chest.