It's past noon when I finally drag myself out of bed, the sunlight cutting through the blinds like it's got a personal grudge against me.
It's Sunday. Alice left for work hours ago, so it's just me, the hum of the fridge, and the smell of cold coffee that's been sitting on the counter since last night.
I open my phone, ready to doomscroll through meaningless stuff: college announcements, memes, another influencer pretending to be relatable… Then, I decided to factory check for myself what was eating me inside since last night. Soon, a headline catches my eye.
"Marketing Consultant Claire Bennett Engaged to Business Tycoon Richard Moreland."
My thumb freezes.
The world sort of... tilts.
I click it, and there she is. Mom, standing next to a man in a charcoal suit and arrogant smile that screamed power and wealth.
Her hair's curled, makeup perfect, diamond flashing under the lights. She's smiling that "corporate photo-op" smile, the one that doesn't reach her eyes.
The caption reads: "The couple met through a mutual client and plan a spring wedding."
For a few seconds, I just stare at the screen.
It feels like looking at a stranger cosplaying as my mother.
Claire Bennett. Marketing consultant. Newly engaged.
Meanwhile, her son is in a cramped apartment above a laundromat, eating cold noodles and trying to remember who he's supposed to be.
I wonder how Josh feels about this.
I haven't seen him since the divorce.
I don't even have his number anymore.
The last time I saw him, he slammed a door in my face. We were both hurt, but he had better aim.
I press the phone to my chest, staring at the ceiling.
If I could call him, what would I even say?
"Hey, congrats on the new dad"?
Yeah, that'd go great.
A bitter laugh slips out before I can stop it.
I toss the phone onto the couch and rub my eyes, but the image of Mom in that photo stays burned into my brain, like she's moved on to some glossier version of life where I don't exist.
I wonder if Dad knows about this. How he must be feeling now?
Before I left for New York, I gave him a fragile thread of hope; told him that if he stopped drinking and things got better, maybe Mom would come back to us with Josh. I still remember the way his eyes lit up, how that tiny spark seemed to chase away years of dullness. For a moment, I thought he might actually make it through.
Truth is, I was clinging to that same illusion.
I told myself I'd study hard in New York with Lena, land a good job, pay off our debts. Mom and Josh would come home. Lena and I would marry. And somehow, we'd all be a family again. Healed, whole, happy.
But now, it just feels like one of those beautiful dreams you wake from too soon. The kind that leaves you aching because it almost felt real.
The fridge hums louder, the city buzzes outside the window, and I just sit there. The air heavy with something between disbelief and quiet heartbreak.
I can't stop hearing his voice.
Samuel Blake.
The perfect grin. The smooth tone. The way his words dripped sugar but tasted like acid.
"To Ash Bennett. The scholar, the survivor, the man who proves you don't need money, family, or luck to keep showing up!"
He said it with a toast, like it was some grand compliment.
Everyone laughed.
And I laughed too, because what else do you do when you're being dissected in public?
Now, sitting in the half-dark of Alice's apartment, that laughter still rings in my ears.
Only now it sounds like something else.
Like betrayal.
He said Lena told him.
But… would she?
Lena never liked talking about my family, not after everything that happened.
She'd change the subject when I brought up Dad, or go quiet when I mentioned Mom. She'd hold my hand instead of answering. That was her way of saying let it go.
So how did Samuel know so much?
Details I never told anyone. The tone of his voice… it wasn't curious. It was deliberate.
Calculated.
I lean back against the couch, staring at the cracked ceiling.
Maybe he's not the golden boy everyone thinks he is.
Maybe Lena's too close to see it.
She always did believe in people too easily. She sees light where others only cast shadows. Maybe she's doing that with him too.
My hands tighten around my phone.
If I could just… make her see who he really is, maybe she'd step back.
Maybe she'd look at me again, not with pity, not with guilt, but with the warmth she used to.
A memory surfaces…
one of those golden-hour evenings when time didn't seem real.
We were in her kitchen, music playing low, both of us pretending to cook but mostly stealing glances and laughter.
Flour dusted her cheek; she looked like she'd been kissed by sunlight itself.
"Chef Bennett, you're burning the sauce," she teased.
"Maybe I like things a little burnt," I said, leaning closer.
She tried to shove me away with her elbow, but I caught her wrist instead.
The world went quiet for a second, the kind of quiet that feels sacred.
Her breath hitched, and she smiled in that shy, dangerous way that made my heart forget its rhythm.
"Don't look at me like that," she whispered.
"Like what?"
"Like you already know how this ends."
I kissed her then; soft, slow, the kind of kiss that felt like a promise neither of us could keep.
Outside, it started to rain, and she laughed into my mouth, murmuring, "See? Even the sky's rooting for us."
I didn't know then that someday I'd remember that night like a wound that never healed.
Now it feels like something that happened to another version of me, someone naive enough to believe love alone could rewrite fate.
That thought is dangerous.
Twisted. Desperate.
But it's also the first thing that's made me feel alive in weeks.
If Samuel's playing a game, fine.
I'll learn the rules.
Because if I can show Lena the truth…
Maybe I can save her.
Maybe I can save what's left of us.
I exhale shakily, running a hand through my hair.
The city hums below, a million strangers moving toward something better.
And I sit here, clinging to a plan that feels more like a fantasy than a strategy.