The fork felt heavy in her hand. A weapon she couldn’t wield.
Across the pristine white marble of the table, Cole smiled. It was the smile he used for clients, the one that didn’t reach his eyes. The one that meant she was in trouble.
“It’s a beautiful dress, Audrey,” he said, his voice a smooth, polished stone. “Of course it is. You have excellent taste.”
A compliment. The first volley in every attack.
“But for the Museum Gala?” He swirled the pinot noir in his glass, the deep red catching the light from the city that glittered twenty stories below. “It’s just… a little severe.”
Audrey looked down at the image on her phone. The dress she’d ordered. A simple, elegant black sheath with a clean, architectural neckline. She had loved it. Five minutes ago, she had loved it.
Now, she saw only what he wanted her to see. The severity. The coldness. The mistake.
“I thought it was classic,” she murmured, her voice small in the cavernous condo. The floor-to-ceiling windows made her feel like an exhibit in a glass box.
“It’s classic, yes,” Cole agreed, nodding like a patient teacher. “But it doesn’t say what we need it to say. The Sterlings are going to be there. This is our chance. This is your chance to show them you’re a major player. That dress says… efficient. It doesn’t say visionary.”
He took a delicate bite of his sea bass. He’d had it flown in this morning. Everything in their life was curated. Perfect. Suffocating.
“I’m the curator of the exhibit, Cole. My work should speak for itself.”
“And it will,” he said, dabbing his lips with a linen napkin. “But people see the frame before they see the art. You’re the frame. I just want you to be the best frame possible.”
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I want them to see what I see.”
The lie was so practiced, so smooth, it almost slid past her. But she felt the truth of it in her bones.
He didn’t want them to see her. He wanted them to see his beautiful, impressive, perfectly-accessorized fiancée.
A testament to his own good taste.
Her stomach churned. The food tasted like ash.
“I need some air,” she said, pushing her chair back. The legs scraped against the polished concrete floor, the sound a violation of the perfect quiet.
Cole’s smile tightened. “Audrey, we’re not finished.”
“I am.” She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. She walked past the sterile white walls, past the abstract art he’d chosen, and grabbed her coat.
“Don’t be dramatic,” his voice followed her. “We’ll just order the blue one we saw last week. It will be here by tomorrow.”
The click of the door shutting behind her was the only answer she could give.
The elevator ride down felt like a descent into another world. The lobby was a silent, marble mausoleum. But then the doorman opened the heavy glass doors, and the city hit her.
Real air. Cold and sharp with the scent of the nearby harbor. Salt and diesel and freedom.
She walked without thinking, her heels clicking on the pavement, a frantic rhythm against the deep hum of the city.
She headed toward the water, drawn by the dark, open space. Away from the glittering towers that all looked like cages.
The cobblestone streets near the shipping terminals were slick with mist. The air was heavy. The distant groan of a foghorn echoed across the water. Here, the city felt different. Gritty. Alive.
She pulled her coat tighter, lost in the swirling mess of her own thoughts. The gala. The dress.
The way Cole could take something she loved and turn it into a weapon against her.
He was so good at it. He chiseled away at her confidence, piece by piece, calling it love.
Distracted, she rounded the corner of a brick warehouse too fast.
She collided with something solid. Immovable. Like hitting a wall made of muscle and denim.
“Oof!”
The air rushed out of her lungs. Her purse flew from her grasp, its contents skittering across the wet stones. She stumbled backward, her ankle twisting, a sharp pain shooting up her leg. She was going down.
Suddenly, strong hands gripped her arms.
They stopped her fall instantly. The grip was firm, grounding. Not painful, just… absolute. She hung there for a second, suspended between the unforgiving ground and this stranger’s strength.
“Whoa there,” a voice rumbled, low and deep. It vibrated through the hands holding her. “You okay?”
She looked up.
Her breath caught.
He wasn’t handsome in the way Cole was handsome. Cole was polished, manicured, a portrait of success.
This man was… weathered. Stubble shadowed a square jaw.
His eyes, the color of the stormy sea, were intense, framed by lines that suggested he squinted into the sun or hadn’t slept in a week.
He wore a faded work jacket over a plain grey t-shirt. He looked like he belonged here, among the ships and the salt.
“I’m… I’m so sorry,” she stammered, her heart hammering against her ribs. “I wasn’t looking.”
He didn’t let her go. His gaze held hers, searching. “Neither was I.”
A small, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t a charming smile. It was real. It crinkled the corners of his eyes and transformed his entire face.
He finally released her arms, and a strange sense of loss washed over her. He bent down, easily gathering her lipstick, her keys, her phone. He moved with a quiet efficiency, his large hands surprisingly gentle.
He handed her things back to her, their fingers brushing. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot up her arm. It was so unexpected, so powerful, it felt like a static shock. She saw his eyes widen slightly. He’d felt it, too.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
He just nodded, his gaze lingering on her face. He saw her. Not a frame for a piece of art. Just her. Standing on a wet street, her hair a mess from the wind, her carefully constructed world falling apart.
He was just a man. A normal man. A dockworker, probably. Someone with calluses on his hands and a life a million miles away from galas and gaslighting.
And in that moment, she felt a pull toward him that was terrifying in its intensity.
“Watch where you’re going,” he said, his voice softer now. It wasn’t a criticism. It was advice.
He gave her one last, searching look, then turned and disappeared into the misty darkness of the waterfront.
Audrey stood frozen, the cold air no longer biting but electric on her skin. The spot on her arms where he’d held her burned.
She looked back up the street, toward the impossibly tall, glittering tower where her condo was. Her perfect, gilded cage.
Cole would be waiting, the blue dress already ordered, her tiny rebellion already smoothed over and forgotten.
Then she looked in the direction the stranger had gone. Toward the dark, endless water. Toward the foghorns and the unknown.
For the first time in years, she didn’t want to run away from something.
She wanted to run toward it.
A new, dangerous thought took root in her mind, a tiny spark of defiance that felt more real than anything she’d felt all night.
What if I just kept walking?