Chapter 1

The dust on the old phone was three years thick when I finally dug it out.

I charged it for half an hour, and the screen finally flickered to life.

The messaging app logged in automatically, and the chat history loaded page by page.

Landon Reed’s name was the third one down on the list.

The last message was from me―three simple words: “Let’s break up.”

There was a red exclamation mark right next to it.

Sending failed.

I stared at that red mark, my thumb hovering over the glass, frozen for a long time.

Three years ago, I thought I was the one who dumped him.

I changed my number, moved to a new city, and buried that relationship in the bottom drawer of my life.

Three years later, I realized the breakup message never even went through.

My new phone buzzed suddenly.

A message from my project manager, Selena, popped up: “The client’s design director is coming in next week. His last name is Reed. Get ready.”

I gripped both phones―the old one and the new one―until my knuckles turned white.

There was no way.

01

My name is Gia Fisher. I’m twenty-six, and I work as an illustrator.

I spent two years drifting as a freelancer before Selena recruited me into her design firm last month.

Our client was a major architectural firm, and the project involved murals for a newly completed community center.

Selena said it was the firm’s biggest contract of the year and kept repeating, “Don’t screw this up.”

I told her I wouldn’t.

Then, a second later, Landon Reed walked into the conference room.

He was wearing a dark gray sweater with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.

It had been three years. His hair was a bit shorter, and his jawline looked even sharper than before.

He held a stack of blueprints, his gaze lifting to sweep across the room.

When his eyes landed on me, they paused for half a second.

Then he looked away.

It was the look of someone staring at a piece of art they had zero interest in.

Selena greeted him warmly. “Director Reed, please, have a seat. This is our lead illustrator, Gia Fisher.”

He gave a stiff nod.

“Hello.”

Just one word. His voice was the same―low, with that slight Southern drawl he’d always had.

But the tone was different.

Back then, when he said my name, his voice would lift at the end, like he was smiling.

Now, his voice was flat.

It felt like stepping on cold stone.

I flipped open my sketchbook, pretending to study my old drafts.

The tip of my pen pressed so hard against the paper that it poked a small hole.