Chapter 1

1.

Seven years.

I gave Jackson Hayes seven whole years of my life.

2,555 days. 87,600 hours.

Countless times waking up at 3:00 AM, reaching out just to make sure he was still there.

And him?

He took one week―just one single week―to climb into the bed of an NYU sophomore.

"Sophia, I’m tired."

That was his reason for breaking up with me. Just those three words.

At the time, I was holding his Tom Ford shirt, freshly picked up from the dry cleaner.

The black one. His favorite.

I had driven three blocks out of my way to that specific cleaner because he said they were the only ones who could press the collar arch perfectly.

"Tired?" I repeated the word, finding it almost funny.

"Yeah." He didn’t even bother to look at me, his eyes glued to his phone screen.

The screen showed real-time stock data from Bloomberg. Those jumping numbers were apparently more worthy of his attention than my face.

"Breaking up and getting back together for so many years... it’s pointless. We both need a fresh start."

A fresh start.

What a magnificent, high-sounding excuse.

"So?" I asked, my voice surprisingly calm. "Does this 'fresh start' include the dinner you had with that blonde girl at The Smith a week ago?"

Jackson’s finger paused on the screen. But only for a second.

"You’re stalking me?"

"I don't need to stalk you, Jackson." I laughed, a sound that felt pathetic even to my own ears.

"Your Instagram is public. The photo of you two has 137 likes and 26 comments. Five of them are from our mutual friends. 'New girlfriend? Lucky girl!' Remember that?"

He finally looked up at me.

There was no guilt in his eyes. Only impatience.

"Sophia, don’t act like a bitter housewife. It doesn’t suit you."

Doesn't suit me.

Right. I shouldn’t act like a bitter housewife.

I should act like a fool. Like I have for the past seven years.

Ignoring his coldness, his perfunctory attitude, and his increasingly frequent "overtime" at work.

"You’re right." I threw the shirt onto the sofa. "This isn’t me. The Sophia who was 'like that' is dead."

Three days later, my friend Riley sent me a photo.

Jackson was walking into Smith & Wollensky―our anniversary steakhouse―with his arm around a blonde girl.

Every November 3rd, we used to go there.

The waiters knew us. They always saved the window seat for us.

In the photo, the girl looked twenty at most. She was wearing a purple NYU hoodie, smiling with innocent brilliance.

Just like I did seven years ago, the first time I met him.

Riley typed a line under the photo: "Sophia, I’m sorry, I thought you should know. Chloe Anderson. Art school sophomore. Her dad is a partner at Anderson & Partners."

I zoomed in on the photo and stared at it for a long time.

Jackson’s hand was resting on the girl’s waist. Low. Almost touching her hip.

It was a possessive gesture.

Seven years ago, he held me exactly the same way.

I suddenly laughed.

I laughed until tears came out.

Then I threw up.

I knelt in front of the toilet, heaving until my stomach was empty, dry heaving bile.

The three-thousand-dollar Cartier ring swirled in the toilet water.

He gave it to me on our third anniversary. It was my birthday. He knelt on one knee in Central Park and slid the ring onto my finger.

"Sophia," he had said, his eyes more sincere than ever before. "When I’m ready, I’ll marry you."

I waited four years.

Four years later, I watched this ring spin and sink in the current.

Three thousand dollars.

Seven years of feelings.

I flushed the toilet.

With a *gurgle*, it disappeared into the sewer.

Just like our relationship―flushed away, never to return.

But throwing away a ring wasn't enough.

Far from enough.

I dragged a huge box out from the depths of the walk-in closet. A Vera Wang custom wedding dress.

I secretly ordered it six months ago.

I thought maybe I could propose to him. Yes, a woman proposing to a man. It’s 2024, there’s no shame in that.

I had planned everything.

I’d book the entire second floor of his favorite Italian restaurant. I’d have a jazz band play his favorite song, "The Way You Look Tonight."

The designer was an Italian lady in her fifties who looked like she had seen the world.

"Engaged, my dear?" she asked me as she measured the lace against my body.

"Soon," I said, smiling with such certainty. "I can feel it."

The look she gave me... thinking back now, it was pity.

The pity of someone who has seen too many foolish girls.

I dragged the wedding dress to the backyard.

Pure white silk. Hand-embroidered lace. Swarovski crystal embellishments.

A dream worth fifteen thousand dollars.

I doused it in lighter fluid and struck a match.

The flames instantly devoured the delicate lace.

The fabric twisted and blackened in the high heat, making a sizzling sound.

The dress that was supposed to make everyone hold their breath in a church was now a pile of burning trash.

The fire was huge, reflecting red against half the night sky.

I went to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of red wine―Jackson’s prized 2015 Chateau Margaux, two thousand dollars a bottle.

I drank straight from the bottle.

The strong alcohol burned my throat, but it couldn't compare to the fire in my heart.

"Sophia!" Linda from next door poked her head out the window, looking terrified. "Oh my god! What are you burning? Should I call the police?"

I raised the wine bottle and gave her a smile that was bright to the point of madness.

"I’m great, Linda! Never been better!"

"I’m burning trash! Seven years of trash!"

Linda stood there, her mouth forming an 'O' shape.

I ignored her. I sat on the backyard steps, watching the flames slowly die down.

The wedding dress finally turned into a pile of black ash, scattered by the night wind.

Just like my love for Jackson.

Burned to ash.

Nothing left.

That night at 11:00 PM, I booked a red-eye JetBlue flight to Los Angeles.

Mint class. One way. No looking back.

While packing, I realized that in this apartment, the things that truly belonged to me were pitifully few.

A few clothes. My laptop. Passport. Credit cards. A photo of my mom.

That was it.

Seven years, and this was it.

This apartment on the Upper East Side, with a monthly rent of fifteen thousand, was his.

The minimalist Nordic furniture was his.

The Basquiat replica on the wall, worth fifty thousand dollars, was his.

I owned nothing.

Or rather, everything I had was charity from him.

This realization disgusted me more than the breakup itself.

I stuck a sticky note on the fridge door:

"Apartment is yours to deal with. Don’t contact me. ―S"

I intended to write my full name, but in the end, I only wrote "S".

I couldn't even be bothered to give him my full name.

At 1:30 AM, I dragged my suitcase out of the apartment building.

Tom, the doorman, was still on duty. He looked stunned when he saw me.

"Miss Sophia, where are you going so late?"

"Vacation," I said, smiling. "A very, very long vacation."

"Then... what about Mr. Hayes?"

"He's not going." I paused. "He's never going."

Tom seemed like he wanted to say something, but in the end, he just nodded. "Safe travels, Miss."

The Uber driver was a chatty older man who kept talking about his daughter studying art at NYU.

I politely mumbled responses, but my mind was blank.

It wasn't until the car got onto FDR Drive and I saw the lights of Manhattan receding in the rearview mirror that I truly realized―

I was free.

***

Meanwhile, at The Campbell, a private lounge in Lower Manhattan.

Amber whiskey swirled in crystal glasses. Cigar smoke curled under the vintage chandeliers.

"Buddy, wanna make a bet?" Marcus propped his feet on the table, swirling his glass, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Bet on what?" Tyler asked, adding ice to his third glass of Macallan 18.

"Bet on how long it takes for Sophia to break." Marcus laughed nastily.

"I say 48 hours. Two days, max. She definitely won't be able to handle it. She'll call back crying."

"I bet three days," Tyler said. "She looks really angry this time. Although I don't know why, shouldn't she be used to it by now?"

"Used to it, my ass," Chris sneered. "Women are all the same. They say no, but their bodies are honest. Sophia can't leave Jackson, just like we can't leave whiskey."

A wave of low laughter followed.

"Then I bet a week," someone said. "Give the girl some credit, she was with Jackson for seven years after all."

Everyone's gaze finally landed on the man in the center of the sofa.

Jackson Hayes.

28 years old. Hedge fund manager. Eight-figure net worth.

Handsome, cold, and always knowing exactly what he wanted.

He had a Marlboro dangling from his lips, lazily sunken into the leather sofa. The smoke blurred his face, but his eyes were full of triumphant arrogance.

He blew a perfect smoke ring and spoke slowly.

"72 hours."

The private room went silent for a second.

"I bet she won't last 72 hours," Jackson repeated, his voice cold as ice.

"On the night of the third day, she will call. Crying, saying she was wrong, saying she can't live without me, begging me to take her back."

He flicked the ash, the corner of his mouth hooking into a mocking smile.

"They are always like this."

*They.*

Not "she," but "they."

As if I were just one of the many women he grew tired of playing with, who would eventually come back.

Marcus whistled. "Jackson, you are fucking ruthless. But are you sure it's the same this time? I feel like Sophia is really..."

"Really what?" Jackson interrupted him. "Really angry? Really going to leave me?"

He sneered and took another swig of whiskey.

"Marcus, how long have you known Sophia?"

"Uh... four years?"

"I've known her for seven," Jackson said. "I know her better than you do. A woman like her, leaving me? Where can she go?"

"Back to her crappy job paying sixty grand a year? Living in a shared apartment in Queens? Don't be funny."

"She's used to the Upper East Side life. Used to Michelin restaurants. Used to my Black Card."

He paused, his smile growing colder. "Most importantly, she's used to me."

Tyler raised his glass. "Then I'll wait for the show. In three days, Jackson pays."

"Deal." Jackson clinked his glass against Tyler's.

***

**The First 72 Hours.**

Los Angeles, Santa Monica.

I was staying in the guest room at Riley's house.

I woke up in the morning, the California sun spilling through the blinds, stinging my eyes.

I picked up my phone.

No missed calls.

No texts.

On WhatsApp, Jackson's last message was stuck from three days ago: "K."

Just one letter.

I stared at that "K" for a long time, suddenly finding it funny.

Seven years of a relationship, and the final farewell was a perfunctory "K."

I turned off my phone and went downstairs to the kitchen.

Riley and her husband Ben were making breakfast.

Ben was a software engineer, a typical Silicon Valley tech guy, but he made amazing pancakes.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty." Riley saw me, her smile a bit sympathetic. "Want a mimosa? I think you need one."

"Drinking at 10 AM?"

"Honey, this is LA." Riley poured me a glass of champagne mixed with orange juice. "In LA, brunch without booze is illegal."

I took the glass and downed it in one go.

The bubbles exploded in my throat, a bit choking, but also refreshing.

"Did that bastard contact you?" Riley asked.

I shook my head.

"Good." Riley bit fiercely into a piece of bacon. "He'd better never contact you. Or I'll fly to New York and castrate him myself."

Ben silently raised his spatula from the side. "I can provide the tools if needed."

I couldn't help but laugh.

It was the first time I had genuinely laughed in three days.

***

**The Second 72 Hours Passed.**

My phone was still silent.

I started taking on some freelance writing gigs.

I worked in content marketing originally, at a boutique PR firm. An eighty-thousand salary wasn't high, but it wasn't low for peers in New York.

Jackson always said my job had "no future" and I should just follow him and be his "personal life assistant."

At the time, I thought it was an affectionate nickname.

Thinking back now, that was basically him keeping a mistress.

I sent emails to three clients saying I was now based in Los Angeles and could work remotely.

Two hours later, all three replied.

One was an emerging skincare brand willing to pay double for me to write a set of social media copy about "female independence."

"Female independence."

I looked at those two words and laughed again.

How ironic.

I spent two hours writing five Instagram captions. Each one talked about how women don't need men to define their worth.

After finishing, I sent them off, then lay on the sofa staring blankly at the ceiling.

Riley came over with two iced lattes and sat next to me.

"Sophia, you look..."

"How do I look?"

"You look much better than you did in New York," she said, then looked at me seriously.

"Really. You smile more genuinely. Even though you don't smile often, every time you do, it's real."

I paused.

"Really?"

"Yes." Riley held my hand. "Sophia, you know what? For the past few years, every time you came to visit me from New York, I felt like you were fake smiling. You smiled sweetly, gently, but your eyes were empty."

I didn't speak.

Because she was right.

***

**Day Seven.**

Late night, 11:00 PM. Manhattan. Jackson's apartment.

He sat alone in the living room, a largely empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label in front of him.

The apartment was terribly quiet.

Quiet enough that he could hear his own heartbeat. Hear the hum of the refrigerator motor. Hear the footsteps of the neighbors upstairs.

He had never felt this apartment was so quiet before.

When Sophia was here, there was always noise.

The sound of her humming while cooking. The sound of her laughing on the phone. The sound of her drying her hair in the bathroom. The sound of her slippers going "pat-pat" as she walked.

Now, there was nothing.

He stared at the sticky note on the coffee table―"Don't contact me. ―S"

Seven days.

Sophia really hadn't sent a single word.

No crying complaints. No questioning. No begging.

Nothing.

It was as if she had completely evaporated from his life.

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath.

He picked up his phone and scrolled to Sophia's number.

The contact name was still "Sophia ??".

She added that heart emoji herself on a lazy Sunday morning, curled in his arms playing with his phone, secretly changing it.

He had said at the time, "Childish."

She said, "I am childish, bite me."

And then he really bit her neck, and she screamed "Ah!" laughing and rolling around on the bed.

He stared at that heart emoji for a long time.

Then, he dialed the number.

The phone rang for a long time.

Long enough that he thought she wouldn't answer.

Then, the call connected.

"Sophia―" His voice had a rare trace of panic, like a child who had done something wrong. "Stop messing around, come back..."

But the voice that came from the other end wasn't Sophia's.

It was a man's voice.

Deep.

Lazy.

Smiling.

And with a clear hint of provocation.

"Hayes," the man said, his tone relaxed like he was chatting about the weather. "Let me give you a piece of advice―"

Jackson's fingers instantly gripped the phone tight, his knuckles turning white.

"If you let a girl go to sleep angry," the voice continued, every word slow, as if deliberately torturing him. "She's very likely to wake up in someone else's bed."

Jackson's breathing stopped for a second.

His temples throbbed, blood rushing to his brain.

"For example," the voice paused, the smile in it deepening, "Mine."

Jackson shot up, almost roaring:

"Who the fuck are you?! Put Sophia on the phone! Now! Immediately!"

On the other end of the line, the man’s low laughter could be heard.

That laughter was full of triumph, full of provocation, full of the mockery that said, "You lose."

***

Los Angeles, Four Seasons Hotel, Ocean View Suite.

I groggily opened my eyes to see Julian holding my phone, speaking into the receiver.

"Julian..." My voice was still sleepy, raspy and lazy. "Who's on the phone?"

Julian looked down and placed a gentle kiss on my forehead.

His lips were hot, like they were going to ignite me.

"Nobody important," he said, his voice low like he was whispering sweet nothings.

Then, he spoke into the phone, unhurriedly:

"I'm afraid not, Hayes."

"She's sleeping soundly."

He looked at me, his eyes deep as the night, looking like they wanted to swallow me whole.

"However," his voice dropped lower, carrying obvious suggestion and provocation, "I wouldn't mind―"

He paused, deliberately dragging out the end of the sentence:

"Waking her up in my own way."

From the phone came Jackson's furious roar:

"Who the fuck are you?! Sophia! Sophia can you hear me?! You listen to me―"

Julian expressionlessly hung up the phone.

He casually turned it off.

Then, he tossed the phone onto the nightstand, leaned down, and kissed me.

The kiss was deep, slow, carrying a certain declaration of sovereignty. His tongue pried open my teeth, invading recklessly, giving me no chance to breathe.

"Baby," he finally released me, whispering in my ear, his breath dusting over my skin. "Wake up..."

I hazily wrapped my arms around his neck. "What time is it?"

"3:00 AM," he said, then nipped at my earlobe. "But that's not important."

"Then what is important?"

He lifted his head, those dark gray eyes shining in the darkness.

"What's important," he said slowly, his voice husky and sexy, "is that the game has just begun."